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ALBERT ADSIT CLEMONS 
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\ ig. 24, 1933 

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^ SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart., 

,. '' THIS WOPK IS DEDICATED, IN TESTIMONi 

OF THE 

ADMIRATION AND AFFECTION 

OF 

THE .\ 'TTHOR. 



Bequest 

Albert Adsit demons 

Aug. 24, 1938 

(Not aYailable for exchange) 



PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION. 



The following papers, with two exceptions, were 
written in England, and formed but part of an in- 
tended series for which I had made notes and 
memorandums. Before I could mature a plan, 
however, circumstances compelled me to send them 
piecemeal to the United States, where they were 
published from time to time in portions or numbers. 
It was not my intention to publish them in England, 
being conscious that much of their contents could 
be interesting only to American readers, and, in 
truth, being deterred by the severity with which 
American productions had been treated by the 
British press. 

By the time the contents of the first volume had 
appeared in this occasional manner, they began to 
find their way across the Atlantic, and to be in- 
serted, with many kind encomiums, in the London 
Literary Gazette. It was said, also, that a London 
bookseller intended to publish them in a collective 
form. I deteMiined, therefore, to bring them for- 
ward myself, that they might at least have the 
benefit of my superintendence and revision. I 
accordingly took the printed numbers which I had 



vi PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION. 

received from the United States, to Mr. John Mur- 
ray, the eminent publisher, from whom I had ah'eady 
received friendly attentions, and left them with him 
for examination, informing him that should he be 
inclined to bring them before the public, I had 
materials enough on hand for a second volume. 
Several days having elapsed without any commu- 
nication from Mr. Murray, I addressed a note to 
him, in which I construed his silence into a tacit 
rejection of my work, and begged that the numbers 
I had left with him might be returned to me. The 
following was his reply : 

My dear Sir : I entreat you to believe that I 
feel truly obliged by your kind intentions towards 
me, and that I entertain the most unfeigned respect 
for your most tasteful talents. My house is com- 
pletely filled with workpeople at this time, and I 
have only an office to transact business in ; and 
yesterday Twas wholly occupied, or I should have 
done myself the pleasure of seeing you. 

If it would not suit me to engage in the publica- 
tion of your piesent work, it is only because I do 
not see that scope in the nature of it which would 
enable me to make those satisfactory accounts be- 
tween us, without which I really feel no satisfaction 
in engaging — but I will do all I can to promote 
their circulation, and shall be most ready to attend 
to any future plan of yours. 

With much regard, I remain, dear sir, 

Your faithful servant, 

John Murray. 

This was disheartening, and might have deterred 



PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION. yii 

me from any further prosecution of the matter, had 
the question of republication in Great Britain rested 
entirely with me ; but I apprehended the appearance 
of a spurious edition. I now thought of Mr. Archi- 
bald Constable as publisher, having been treated 
by him with much hospitality during a visit to Edin- 
burgh ; but first I determined to submit my work to 
Sir Walter (then Mr.) Scott, being encouraged to 
do so by the cordial reception I had experienced 
from him at Abbotsford a few^ years previously, and 
by the favorable opinion he had expressed to others 
of my earlier writings. I accordingly sent him the 
printed numbers of the Sketch-Book in a parcel by 
coach, and at the same time wrote to him, hinting 
that since I had had the pleasure of partaking of 
his hospitality, a reverse had taken place in my 
affairs which made the successful exercise of my 
pen all-important to me ; I begged him, therefore, 
to look over the literary articles I had forwarded to 
him, and, if he thought they would bear European 
republication, to ascertain whether Mr. Constable 
would be inclined to be the publisher. 

The parcel containing my work went by coach to 
Scott's address in Edinburgh ; the letter went by 
mail to his residence in the country. By the very 
first post I received a reply, before he had seen my 
work. 

" I was down at Kelso," said he, " when your 
letter reached' Abbotsford. I am now on my way 
to town, and will converse with Constable, and do 
all in my power to forward your views — I assure 
you nothing will give me mor-. pleasure." 

The hint, however, about a reverse of fortune 
had struck the quick apprehension of Scott, and, 



, .. . .:i.iAC/': TO THE REVISED EDITION. 

wi.h that practical and efficient good-will which be- 
Ion :;ed to his nature, he had already devised a way 
of aiding me. A weekly periodical, he went on to 
inform me, was about to be set up in Edinburgh, 
supported by the most respectable talents, and am- 
ply furnished with all the necessary information. 
Tlie appointment of the editor, for which ample 
funds were provided, would be five hundred pounds 
sterhng a year, with the reasonable prospect of 
further advantages. This situation, being appar- 
ently at his disposal, he frankly offered to me. The 
work, however, he intimated, was to have some- 
what of a political bearing, and he expressed an 
apprehension that the tone it was desired to adopt 
might not suit me. " Yet I risk the question," 
added he, 'because I know no man so well quali- 
fied for this important task, and perhaps because 
it will necessarily bring you to Edinburgh. If my 
proposal does not suit, you need only keep the mat- 
ter secret and there is no harm done. "And for 
my love I pray you wrong me not.' If on the con- 
trary you think it could be made to suit you, let me 
know as soon as possible, addressing Castle Street, 
Edinburgh." 

In a postscript, written from Edinburgh, he adds, 
*' I am just come here, and have glanced over the 
Sketch-Book. It is positively beautiful, and in- 
creases my desire to crimp you, if it be possible. 
Some difficulties there always are in managing such 
a matter, especially at the outset ; but we will ob- 
viate them as much as we possibly can." 

The following is from an imperfect draught of my 
reply, which underwent some modifications in the 
copy sent : 



PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION. h 

" I cannot express how much I am gratified by 
your letter. I had begun to feel'as if I had taken 
an unwarrantable liberty ; but, somehow or other, 
there is a genial sunshine about you that warms 
every creeping thing into heart and confidence. 
Your literary proposal both surprises and flatters 
me, as it evinces a much higher opinion of my tal- 
ents than I have myself." 

I then v.'ent on to explain that I found myself 
peculiarly unfitted for the situation offered to me, 
not merely by my political opinions, but by the very 
constitution and habits of m}^ mind. " My whole 
course of life," I observed, "has been desultory, 
and I am unfitted for any periodically recurring 
task, or any stipulated labor of body or mind. I 
have no command of my talents, such as they are, 
and have to watch the varyings of my mind as I 
would those of a weathercock. Practice and train- 
ing may bring me more into rule ; but at present I 
am as useless for regular service as one of my own 
country Indians or a Don Cossack. 

" I must, therefore, keep on pretty much as I have 
begun ; writing when I can, not when I would. I 
shall occasionally shift my residence and write 
whatever is suggested by objects before me, or 
whatever rises in my imagination ; and hope to 
write better and more copiously by and by. 

" I am playing the egotist, but I know no better 
way of answering your proposal than by showing 
what a very good-for-nothing kind of being I am. 
Should Mr. Constable feel inclined to make a bar- 
gain for the wares I have on hand, he will en- 
courage me to further enterprise ; and it will be 
something like trading with a gYPsy fo^ the fruits 



X PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION. 

of his prowlings, who may at one time have nothing 
but a wooden bowl to offer, and at another time a 
silver tankard." 

In reply, Scott expressed regret, but not surprise, 
at my declining what might have proved a trouble- 
some duty. He then recurred to the original sub- 
ject of our correspondence ; entered into a detail 
of the various terms upon which arrangements were 
made between authors and booksellers, that I 
might take my choice ; expressing the most en- 
couraging confidence of the success of my work, 
and of previous works Vv^hich I had produced in 
America. " I did no more," added he, " than open 
the trenches with Constable ; but I am sure if you 
will take the trouble to write to him, you will find 
him disposed to treat your overtures with every 
degree of attention. Or, if you think it of con- 
sequence in the first place to see me, I shall be in 
London in the course of a month, and whatever my 
experience can command is most heartily at your 
command. But I can add little to what I have said 
above, except my earnest recommendation to Con- 
stable to enter into the negotiation." * 

* I cannot avoid subjoining in a note a succeeding para- 
graph of Scott's letter, which, though it does not relate to 
the main subject of our correspondence, was too character- 
istic to be omitted. Some time previously I had sent Miss 
Sophia vScott small duodecimo American editions of her 
father's poems published in Edinburgh in quarto volumes ; 
showing the " nigromancy " of the American press, by which 
a quart of wine is conjured into a pint bottle. Scott ob- 
serves; "In my hurry, I have not thanked you in Sophia's 
name for the kind attention which furnished her with the 
American volumes. I am not quite sure I can add my own, 
since you have made her acquainted with much more of 
papa's folly than .=he would ever otherwise have learned ; for 



PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION, xi 

Before the receipt of this most obliging letter, 
however, I had determined to look to no leading 
bookseller for a launch, but to throw my work be- 
fore the public at my own risk, and let it sink or 
swim according to its merits. I wrote to that effect 
to Scott, and soon received a reply : 

" I observe with pleasure that you are going to 
come forth in Britain. It is certainly not the very 
best way to publish on one's own accompt ; for the 
booksellers set their face against the circulation of 
such works as do not pay an amazing toll to them- 
selves. But they have lost the art of altogether 
damming up the road in such cases between the 
author and the public, which they were once able 
to do as effectually as Diabolus in John Bunyan's 
Holy War closed up the windows of my Lord 
Understanding's mansion. I am sure of one thing, 
that you have only to be known to the British public 
to be admired by them, and I would not say so un- 
less I really was of that opinion. 

" If you ever see a witty but rather local publica- 
tion called Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine^ you 
will find some notice of your works in the last 
number : the author is a friend of mine, to whom I 
have introduced you in your literary capacity. His 
name is Lockhart', a young man of very consider- 
able talent, and who will soon be intimately con- 
nected with my family. My faithful friend Knicker- 

I had taken special care they should never see any of those 
things during their earlier years. I think I have told you 
that Walter is sweeping the firmament with a feather like a 
maypole and indenting the pavement with a sword like a 
scythe — in other words, he has become a whiskered hussar 
in the iSth Dragoons." 



yii PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION. 

bocker is to be next examined and illustrated. 
Constable was extremely willing to enter into con- 
sideration of a treaty for your works, but I foresee 
will be still more so when 

Your name is up, and may go 
From Toledo to Madrid. 



-And that will soon be the case. I trust to 



be in London about the middle of the month, and 
promise myself great pleasure in once again shak- 
ing you by the hand." 

The first volume of the Sketch -Book was put to 
press in London, as I had resolved, at my own risk, 
by a bookseller unknown to fame, and without any 
of the usual arts by which a work is trumpeted into 
notice. Still some attention had been called to it 
by the extracts which had previously appeared in 
the Literary Gazette, and by the kind word spoken 
by the editor of that periodical, and it was getting 
into fair circulation, when my worthy bookseller 
failed before the first month was over, and the sale 
was interrupted. 

At this juncture Scott arrived in London. I 
called to him for help, as I was sticking in the mire, 
and, more propitious than Hercules, he put his own 
shoulder to the wheel. Through his favorable rep- 
resentations, Murray was quickly induced to un- 
dertake the future publication of the work which 
he had previously declined. A further edition of 
the first volume was struck off and the second vol- 
ume was put to press, and from that time Murray 
became my publisher, conducting himself in all his 
dealings with that fair, open, and liberal spirit which 



PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION, xiii 

had obtained for him the well-merited appellation 
of the Prince of Booksellers. 

Thus, under the kind and cordial auspices of Sir 
Walter Scott, I began my literary career in Europe; 
and I feel that I am but discharging, in a triHing 
degree, my debt of gratitude to the memory of ihat 
golden-hearted man in acknowledging my obliga- 
tions to him. But who of his literary contempora- 
ries ever applied to him for aid or counsel (lint did 
not experience the most prompt, generous, -:nd 
effectual assistance ? 

W. L 

SUNNYSIDE, 1848. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGB 

Pretace , . iii 

The Author's Account of Himself I 

The Voyage 5 

Roscoe 14 

The Wife » 23 

Rip Van Winkle 34 

English Writers on America 58 

Rural Life in England "jo 

The Broken Heart 8c 

The Art of Book-making S8 

A Royal Poet 98 

The Country Church 116 

The Widow and her Son 123 

A Sunday in London 133 

The Boar's Head Tavern 136 

The Mutability of Literature 151 

Rural Funerals 166 

The Inn Kitchen 181 

The Spectre Bridegroom 184 

Westminster Abbey 206 

Christmas 220 

The Stage-Coach 228 

Christmas Eve 237 

Christmas Day = 252 

The Christmas Dinner 270 

London Antiques 289 

Little Britain 297 

Stratford-on-Avon 317 

Traits of Indian Character 342 

Philip of Pokanoket 357 

John Bull 380 

The Pride of the Village 395 

The Angler 407 

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 419 

L'Envoy 462 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. 

I am of this mind with Homer, that as the snaile that crept 
out of her shel was turned eftsoones into a toad, and thereby 
was forced to make a stoole to sit on ; so the traveller that 
stragleth from his owne country is in a short time transformed 
into so monstrous a shape, that he is faine to alter his man- 
sion with his manners, and to live where he can, not where he 
would. — Lyly's Euphues. 

I WAS always fond of visiting new scenes, and 
observing strange characters and manners. Even 
when a mere child I began my travels, and made 
many tours of discovery into foreign parts and un* 
known regions of my native city, to the frequent 
alarm of my parents, and the emolument of the town 
crier. As I grew into boyhood, I extended the 
range of my observations. My holiday afternoons 
were spent in rambles about the surrounding coun- 
try. I made myself familiar with all its places fa- 
mous in history or fable. I knew every spot where a 
murder or robbery had been committed, or a ghost 
seen. I visited the neighboring villages, and added 
greatly to my stock of knowledge, by noting their 



2 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

habits and customs, and conversing with their 
sages and great men. I even journeyed one long 
summer's day to the summit of the most distant 
hill, whence I stretched my eye over many a mile 
of ter}'a ificognita^ and was astonished to find how 
vast a globe I inhabited. 

This rambling propensity strengthened with my 
years. Books of voyages and travels became my 
passion, and in devouring their contents, I neglect- 
ed the regular exercises of the school. How wist- 
-fuUy would I wander about the pier-heads in fine 
weather, and watch the parting ships, bound to 
distant climes ; with what longing eyes would I 
^aze after their lessening sails, and waft myself in 
imagination to the ends of the earth ! 

Further reading and thinking, though they 
brought this vague inclination into more reasonable 
bounds, only served to make it more decided. I 
visited various parts of my own country ; and 
had I been merely a lover of fine scenery, I 
should have felt little desire to seek elsewhere its 
gratification, for on no country had the charms of 
nature been more prodigally lavished. Her mighty 
lakes, her oceans of liquid silver ; her mountains, 
with their bright aerial tints ; her valleys, teeming 
with wild fertility ; her tremendous cataracts, thun- 
dering in their solitudes ; her boundless plains, 
waving with spontaneous verdure ; her broad, deep 
rivers, rolling in solemn silence to the ocean ; her 
trackless forests, where vegetation puts forth all its 
magnificence ; her skies, kindling with the magic of 
summer clouds and glorious sunshine ; — no, never 
need an American look beyond his own country for 
the sublime and beautiful of natural scenery. 



THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. 3 

But Europe held forth all the charms of storied 
and poetical association. There were to be seen 
the masterpieces of art, the refinements of highly 
cultivated society, the quaint peculiarities of ancient 
and local custom. My native country was full of 
youthful promise ; Europe was rich in the accumu- 
lated treasures of age. Her very ruins told the 
history of the times gone by, and every mouldering 
stone was a chronicle. I longed to wander over 
the scenes of renowned achievement — to tread, as 
it were, in the footsteps of antiquity — to loiter 
about the ruined castle — to meditate on the falling 
tower — to escape, in short, from the commonplace 
realities of the present, and lose myself among the 
shadowy grandeurs of the past. 

I had, besides all this, an earnest desire to see 
the great men of the earth. We have, it is true, 
our great men in America : not a city but has an 
ample share of them. I have mingled among them 
in my time, and been almost withered by the shade 
into which they cast me ; for there is nothing so 
baleful to a small man as the shade of a great one, 
particularly the great man of a city. But I was 
anxious to see the great men of Europe ; for I had 
read in the works of various philosophers, that all 
animals degenerated in America, and man among 
the number. A great man of Europe, thought I, 
must therefore be as superior to a great man of 
America, as a peak of the Alps to a highland of the 
Hudson ; and in this idea I was confirmed by ob- 
serving the comparative importance and swelling 
magnitude of many English travellers among us, 
who, T was assured, were very little people in their 
own country. I will visit this land of wonders, 



4 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

thought I, and see the gigantic race from which I 
am degenerated. 

It has been either my good or evil lot to have 
my roving passion gratified. I have wandered 
through different countries and witnessed many of 
the shifting scenes of life. I cannot say that I 
have studied them with the eye of a philosopher, 
but rather with the sauntering gaze with which 
humble lovers of the picturesque stroll from the 
window of one print-shop to another; caught some- 
times by the delineations of beauty, sometimes by 
the distortions of caricature, and sometimes by 
the loveliness of landscape. As it is the fashion 
for modern tourists to travel pencil in hand, and 
bring home their portfolios filled with sketches, I 
am disposed, to get up a few for the entertainment 
of my friends. When, however, I look over the 
hints and memorandums I have taken down for 
the purpose, my heart almost fails me, at finding 
how my idle humor has led me astray from the great 
object studied by every regular traveller who would 
make a book. I fear I shall give equal disappoint- 
ment with an unlucky landscape-painter, who had 
travelled on the Continent, but following the bent 
of his vagrant inclination, had sketched in nooks, 
and corners, and by-places. His sketch-book was 
accordingly crowded with cottages, and landscapes, 
and obscure ruins ; but he had neglected to paint 
St. Peter's, or the Coliseum, the cascade of Terni, 
or the bay of Naples, and had not a single glacier 
or volcano in his whole collection. 



THE VOYAGE. 



THE VOYAGE. 

Ships, ships, I will clescrie you 

Amidst the main, 
I will come and try you, 
\Vhat you are protracting, 
And projecting, 

What's your end and aim. 
One goes abroad for merchandise and trading, 
Another stays to keep his country from invading, 
A third is coming home with rich and wealthy lading. 
Hallo ! my fancie, whither wilt thou go ? 

Old PoeiM. 

To an American visiting Europe, the long voy- 
age he has to make is an excellent preparative. 
The temporary absence of worldly scenes and em- 
ployments produces a state of mind peculiarly 
fitted to receive new and vivid impressions. The 
vast space of waters that separate the hemispheres 
is like a blank page in existence. There is no 
gradual transition by which, as in Europe, the 
features and population of one country blend al- 
most imperceptibly with those of another. From 
the moment you lose sight of the land you have 
left, all is vacancy, until you step on the opposite 
shore, and are launched at once into the bustle and 
novelties of another world. 

In travelling by land there is a continuity of 
scene, and a connected succession of persons and 
incidents, that carry on the story of life, and lessen 
the effect of absence and separation. We drag, it 



6 THE SKETlH-BOOK. 

IS true, " a lengthening chain " at each remove of 
our pilgrimage ; but the chain is unbroken ; we can 
trace it back link by link ; and we feel that the 
last still grapples us to home. But a wide sea 
voyage severs us at once. It makes us conscious 
of being cast loose from the secure anchorage of 
settled life, and sent adrift upon a doubtful world. 
It interposes a gulf, not merely imaginary, but real, 
between us and our homes — a gulf, subject to tem- 
pest, and fear, and uncertainty, rendering distance 
palpable, and return precarious. 

Such, at least, was the case with myself. As I 
saw the last blue lines of my native land fade away 
like a cloud in the horizon, it seemed as if I had 
closed one volume of the world and its concerns, 
and had time for meditation, before I opened an- 
other. That land, too, now vanishing from my 
view, which contained all most dear to me 
in life; what vicissitudes might occur in it — what 
changes might take place in me, before I should 
visit it again ! Who can tell, when he sets forth 
to wander, whither he may be driven by the uncer- 
tain currents of existence ; or when he may return ; 
or whether it may be ever his lot to revisit the 
scenes of his childhood ? 

I said, that at sea all is vacancy ; I should correct 
the impression. To one given to day-dreaming, 
and fond of losing himself in reveries, a sea voyage is 
full of subjects for meditation ; but then they are 
the wonders of the deep and of the air, and rather 
tend to abstract the mind from worldly themes. I 
delighted to loll over the quarter-railing or climb 
to the main-top, of a calm day, and muse for hours 
together on the tranquil bosom of a summer's sea; 



THE VOYAGE. 7 

to gaze upon the piles of golden clouds just peer- 
ing above the horizon, fancy them some fairy 
realms, and people them with a creation of my own,* 
■ — to watch the gently undulating billows rolling 
their silver volumes, as if to die away on those 
happy shores. 

There was a delicious sensation of mingled se- 
curity and awe with which I looked down, from my 
giddy height, on the monsters of the deep at their 
uncouth gambols : shoals of porpoises tumbling 
about the bow of the ship ; the grampus, slowly 
heaving his huge form above the surface ; or the 
ravenous shark, darting, like a spectre, through the 
blue waters. My imagination would conjure up all 
that I had heard or read of the watery world be- 
neath me ; of the finny herds that roam its fathom- 
less valleys ; of the shapeless monsters that lurk 
among the very foundations of the earth ; and of 
those wild phantasms that swell the tales of fisher- 
men and sailors. 

Sometimes a distant sail, gliding along the edge 
of the ocean, would be another theme of idle specu- 
lation. How interesting this fragment of a world, 
hastening to rejoin the great mass of existence ! 
What a glorious monument of human invention ; 
which has in a manner triumphed over wind and 
wave ; has brought the ends of the world into com- 
munion ; has established an interchange of blessings, 
pouring into the sterile regions of the north all the 
luxuries of the south ; has diffused the light of 
knowledge, and the charities of cultivated life ; and 
has thus bound together those scattered portions 
of the human race, between which nature seemed to 
have thrown an insurmountable barrier. 



8 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

We one day descried some shapeless object 
drifting at a distance. At sea, every thing that 
breaks the monotony of the surrounding expanse 
attracts attention. It proved to be the mast of a 
ship that must have been completely wrecked ; for 
there were the remains of handkerchiefs, by which 
some of the crew had fastened themselves to this 
spar, to prevent their being washed off by the 
waves. There was ne> trace by which the name of 
the ship could be ascertained. The wreck had evi- 
dently drifted about for many months ; clusters of 
shell-fish had fastened about it, and long sea-weeds 
flaunted at its sides. But where, thought I, is the 
crew ? Their struggle has long been over — they 
have gone down amidst the roar of the tempest — • 
their bones lie whitening among the caverns of 
the deep. Silence, oblivion, like the waves, have 
closed over them, and no one can tell the story of 
their end. What sighs have been wafted after that 
ship ! what prayers offered up at the deserted fire- 
side of home ! How often has the mistress, the 
wife, the mother, pored over the daily news, to 
catch some casual intelligence of this rover of the 
deep ! How has expectation darkened into anxiety 
— anxiety into dread — and dread into despair! 
Alas ! not one memento may ever return for love 
to cherish. All that may ever be known, is that 
she sailed from her port, '' and was never heard of 
more ! " 

The sight of this wreck, as usual, gave rise to 
many dismal anecdotes. This was particularly the 
case in the evening, when the weather, which had 
hitherto been fair, began to look wild and threat- 
ening, and gave indications of one of those sudden 



THE VOYAGE. 9 

Storms that will sometimes break in upon the se- 
renity of a summer voyage. As we sat round the 
dull light of a lamp, in the cabin, that made the 
gloom more ghastly, everyone had his tale of ship- 
wreck and disaster. I was particularly struck v/ith 
a short one related by the captain : 

" As [ was once sailing," said he, " in a fine, 
stout ship, across the banks of Newfoundland, one 
of those heavy fogs that prevail in those parts ren- 
dered it impossible for us to see far ahead, even 
in the daytime ; but at night the weather was so 
thick that we could not distinguish any object at 
twice the length of the ship. 1 kept lights at the 
mast-head, and a constant watch forward to look 
out for fishing smacks, which are accustomed to 
anchor on the banks. The wind was blowing a 
smacking breeze, and we were going at a great rate 
through the water. Suddenly the watch gave the 
alarm of ' a sail ahead ! * — it was scarcely uttered 
before w^e were upon her. She was a small 
schooner, at anchor, with her broadside toward us. 
The crew were all asleep, and had neglected to 
hoist a light. We struck her just amidships. The 
force, the size, and weight of our vessel, bore her 
down below the waves ; we passed over her and 
were hurried on our course. As the crashing wreck 
was sinking beneath us, I had a glimpse of two or 
three half-naked wretches, rushing from her cabin ; 
they just started from their beds to be swallowed 
shrieking by the waves. I heard their drowning 
cry mingling with the wind. The blast that bore 
it to our ears, swept us out of all further hearing. 
I shall never forget that cry ! It was some time 
before we could put the ship about, she was under 



lo THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

such headway. We returned, as nearly as we could 
guess, to the place where the smack had anchored. 
We cruised about for several hours in the dense 
fog. We fired signal-guns, and listened if we might 
hear the halloo of any survivors : but all was silent 
— we never saw or heard any thing of them more." 

I confess these stories, for a time, put an end to 
all my fine fancies. The storm increased with the 
night. The sea was lashed into tremendous con- 
fusion. There was a fearful, sullen sound of rush- 
ing waves and broken surges. Deep called unto 
deep. At times the black volume of clouds over- 
head seemed rent asunder by flashes of lightning 
which quivered along"the foaming billows, and made 
the succeeding darkness doubly terrible. The 
thunders bellowed over the wild waste of waters, 
and were echoed and prolonged by the mountain 
waves. As I saw the ship staggering and plunging 
among these roaring caverns, it seemed miraculous 
that she regained her balance, or preserved her 
buoyancy. Her yards would dip into the water ; her 
bow was almost buried beneath the waves. Some- 
times an impending surge appeared ready to over- 
whelm her, and nothing but a dexterous move- 
ment of the helm preserved her from the shock. 

When I retired to my cabin, the awful scene still 
followed me. The whistling of the wind through 
the rigging sounded like funereal wailings. The 
creaking of the masts ; the straining and groaning 
of bulkheads, as the ship labored in the weltering 
sea, were frightful. As I heard the waves rushing 
along the side of the ship, and roaring in my very 
ear, it seemed as if Death were raging around this 
floating prison, seeking for his prey: the mere 



THE VOYAGE. il 

Starting of a nail, the yawning of a seam, might 
give him entrance. 

A fine day, liowever, witli a tranquil sea and favor- 
ing breeze, soon put all these dismal reflectio'ns to 
flight. It is impossible to resist the gladdening in- 
fluence of fine weather and fair wind at sea. When 
the ship is decked out in all her canvas, every 
sail swelled, and careering gayly over the curling 
waves, how lofty, how gallant, she appears — how 
she seems to lord it over the deep ! 

I might fill a volume with the reveries of a sea 
voyage ; for with me it is almost a continual reverie 
• — but it is time to get to shore. 

It was a fine sunny morning when the thrilling 
cry of " land ! " was given from the mast-head. 
None but those who have experienced it can form 
an idea of the delicious throng of sensations which 
rush into an American's bosom, when he first comes 
in sight of Europe. There is a volume of associa- 
tions with the very name. It is the land of promise, 
teeming with everything of which his childhood has 
heard, or on which his studious years have pon- 
dered. 

From that time, until the moment of arrival, it 
was all feverish excitement. The ships of war, 
that prowled like guardian giants along the coast; 
the headlands of Ireland, stretching out into the 
channel ; the Welsh mountains towering into the 
clouds ; — all were objects of intense interest. As we 
sailed up the Mersey, I reconnoitred the shores 
with a telescope. My eye dwelt with delight on 
neat cottages, with their trim shrubberies and green 
grass-plots. I saw the mouldering ruin of an abbey 
overrun with ivy, and the taper spire of a village 



12 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

church rising from the brow of a neighboring hill ; 
■ — all were characteristic of England. 

The tide and wind were so favorable, that the 
ship was enabled to come at once to her pier. It 
was thronged with people ; some idle lookers-on ; 
others, eager expectants of friends or relations. I 
could distinguish the merchant to whom the ship 
was consigned. I knew him by his calculating brow 
and restless air. His hands were thrust into his 
pockets ; he was whistling thoughtfully, and walk- 
ing to and fro, a small space having been accorded 
him by the crowd, in deference to his temporary 
jnportance. There were repeated cheerings and 
salutations interchanged between the shore and the 
ship, as friends happened to recognize each other. 
I particularly noticed one young woman of humble 
dress, but interesting demeanor. She was leaning 
forward from among the crowd ; her eye hurried 
over the ship as it neared the shore, to catch some 
wished-for countenance. She seemed disappointed 
and sad; w^hen I heard a faint voice call her 
name. — It was from a poor sailor who had been ill 
all the voyage, and had excited the sympathy of 
every one on board. When the weather was fine, 
his messmates had spread a mattress for him on 
deck in the shade, but of late his illness had so in- 
creased that he had taken to his hammock, and 
only breathed a wish that he might see his wife 
before he died. He had been helped on deck as 
we came up the river, and was now leaning against 
the shrouds, with a countenance so wasted, so pale, 
so ghastly, that it was no wonder even the eye of 
affection did not recognize him. But at the sound 
of his voice, her eye darted on his features : it 



THE VOYAGE. 



13 



read, at once, a whole volume of sorrow ; she 
clasped her hands, uttered a faint shriek, and stood 
wringing them in silent agony. 

All now was hurry and bustle. The meetings of 
acquaintances — the greetings of friends — the con- 
sultations of men of business. I alone was solitary 
and idle. I had no friend to meet, no cheering to 
receive. I stepped upon the land of my forefathers 
— but felt that I was a stranger in the land. 



14. THE SKETCH-BOOK. 



ROSCOE. 



-In the service of mankind 1o be 



A guardian god below ; still to employ 
The mind's brave ardor in heroic aims, 
Such as may raise us o'er the grovelling herd. 
And make us shine for ever — that is life. 

Thomson. 

One of the first places to which a stranger is 
taken in Liverpool is the Athenaeum. It is estab- 
lished on a liberal and judicious plan ; it contains 
a good library, and spacious reading-room, and is 
the great literary resort of the place. Go there at 
what hour you may, you are sure to find it filled 
with grave-looking personages, deeply absorbed in 
the study of newspapers. 

As I was once visiting this haunt of the learned, 
my attention was attracted to a person just enter- 
ing the room. Pie was advanced in life, tall, and 
of a form that might once have been commanding, 
but it was a little bowed by time — perhaps by care. 
He had a noble Roman style of countenance ; a 
a head that would have pleased a painter ; and 
though some slight furrows on his brow showed 
that wasting thought had been busy there, yet 
his eye beamed with the fire of a poetic soul. 
There was something in his whole appearance that 
indicated a being of a different order from the bus- 
tling race round him. 

I inquired his name, and was informed that it was 
RoscoE. I drew back with an involuntary feeling 



ROSCOE. 



15 



of veneration. This, then, was an author of celeb- 
rity ; this was one of those men whose voices have 
gone forth to the ends of the earth ; with whose 
minds I have communed even in the sohtudes of 
America. Accustomed, as we are in our country, 
to know European writers only by their works, we 
cannot conceive of them, as of other men, enp"rossed 
by trivial or sordid pursuits, and jostling with the 
crowd of common minds in the dusty paths of life. 
They pass before our imaginations like superior 
beings, radiant with the emanations of their genius, 
and surrounded by a halo of literary glory. 

To find, therefore, the elegant historian of the 
Medici mingling among the busy sons of traffic, at 
first shocked my poetical ideas ; but it is from the 
very circumstances and situation in which he has 
been placed, that Mr. Roscoe derives his highest 
claims to admiration. It is interesting to notice 
how some minds seem almost to create themselves, 
springing up under every disadvantage, and work- 
ing their solitary but irresistible way through a 
thousand obstacles. Nature seems to delight in 
disappointing the assiduities of art, with which it 
would rear legitimate dulness to maturity ; and to 
glory in the vigor and luxuriance of her chance 
productions. She scatters the seeds of genius to 
the winds, and though some may perish among the 
stony places of the world, and some be choked by 
the thorns and brambles of early adversity, yet 
others will now and then strike root even in the 
clefts of the rock, struggle bravely up into sunshine, 
and spread over their sterile birthplace all the 
beauties of vegetation. 

Such has been the case with Mro Roscoe. Born 



1 6 THE SKEJVII-BOOK'. 

in a place apparently ungenial to the growth of 
literary talent — in the very market-place of trade; 
without fortune, family connections, or patronage; 
self prompted, self-sustained, and almost self-taught, 
he has conquered every obstacle, achieved his way 
to eminence, and, having become one of the orna- 
ments of the nation, has turned the whole force of 
his talents and influence to advance and embellish 
his native towru 

Indeed, it is this last trait in his character which 
has given him the greatest interest in my eyes, and 
induced me particularly to point him out to my 
countrymen. Eminent as are his literary merits, he 
is but one among the many distinguished authors 
of this intellectual nation. They, however, in gen- 
eral, live but for their own fame, or their own pleas- 
ures. Their private history presents no lesson to 
the world, or, perhaps, a humiliating one of human 
frailty or inconsistency. At best, they are prone 
to steal away from the bustle and commonplace of 
busy existence ; to indulge in the selfishness of let- 
tered ease ; and to revel in scenes of mental, but 
exclusive enjoyment. 

Mr. Roscoe, on the contrary, has claimed none 
of the accorded privileges of talent. He has shut 
himself up in no garden of thought, nor elysium of 
fancy ; but has gone forth into the highways and 
thoroughfares of life, he has planted bowers by the 
wayside, for the refreshment of the pilgrim and the 
sojourner, and has opened pure fountains, where 
the laboring man may turn aside from the dust and 
heat of the day, and drink of the living streams of 
knowledge. There is a " daily beauty in his life," 
on which mankind may meditate, and grow better. 



ROSCOL. 17 

It exhibits no lofty and almost useless, because in- 
imitable, example of excellence ; but presents a pict- 
,ure of active, yet simple and imitable virtues, which 
are within every man's reach, but which, unfortu- 
nately, are not exercised by many, or this world 
would be a paradise. 

But his private life is peculiarly worthy the atten 
tion of the citizens of our young and busy country 
where literature and the elegant arts must grow \x\ 
side by side with the coarser plants of daily neces- 
sity; and must depend for their culture, not on 
the exclusive devotion of time and wealth ; nor the 
quickening rays of titled patronage ; but on hours 
and seasons snatched from the purest of worldly 
interests, by intelligent and public-spirited indi- 
viduals. 

He has shown how much maybe done for a place 
in hours of leisure by one master-spirit, and how 
completely it can give its own impress to surround- 
ing objects. Like his own Lorenzo (;le' Medici, on 
whom he seems to have fixed his eye, as on a pure 
model of antiquity, he has interwoven the history 
of his life with the history of his native town, ana 
has made the foundations of his fame the monuments 
of his virtues. Wherever you go, in Liverpool, you 
perceive traces of his footsteps in all that is ele- 
gant and liberal. He found the tide of wealth flow- 
ing merely in the channels of traffic ; he has diverted 
from it invigorating rills to refresh the garden of 
literature. By his own example and constant ex- 
ertions, he has effected that union of commerce and 
the intellectual pursuits, so eloquently recommended 
in one of his latest writings ; '^ and has practically 

* Address on the opening of the Liverpool Institution. 
2 



I 8 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

proved how beautifully they may be brought to 
harmonize, and to benefit each other. The noble 
institutions for literary and scientific purposes, which 
reflect such credit on Liverpool, and are giving such 
an impulse to the public mind, have mostly been 
originated, and have all been effectively promoted, 
by Mr. Roscoe ; and when we consider the rapidly 
increasing opulence and magnitude of that town, 
which promises to vie in commercial importance 
with the metropolis, it will be perceived that in 
awakening an ambition of mental improvement 
among its inhabitants, he has effected a great benefit 
to the cause of British literature. 

In America, we know Mr. Roscoe only as the 
author ; in Liverpool he is spoken of as the banker ; 
and I was told of his having been unfortunate in 
business. I could not pity him, as I heard some 
rich men do. I considered him far above the reach 
of pity. Those who live only for the world, and 
in the world, may be cast down by the frowns of adver- 
sity ; but a man like Roscoe is not to be overcome 
by the reverses of fortune. They do but drive him 
in upon the resources of his own mind, to the supe- 
rior society of his own thoughts ; which the best of 
men are apt sometimes to neglect, and to roam 
abroad in search of less worthy associates. He is 
independent of the world around him. He lives 
with antiquity, and with posterity : with antiquity, in 
the sweet communion of studious retirement ; and 
with posterity, in the generous aspirings after future 
renown. The solitude of such a mind is its state of 
highest enjoyment. It is then visited by those ele- 
vated meditations which are the proper aliment of 



ROSCOE. 19 

noble souls, and are, like manna, sent from heaven, 
in the wilderness of this world. 

While n V feelings were yet alive on the subject, 
it was my fortune to light on further traces of Mr. 
Roscoe. I was riding out with a gentleman, to 
view the environs of Liverpool, when he turned off, 
through a gate, into some ornamented grounds. 
After riding a short distance, we came to a spacious 
mansion of freestone, built in the Grecian style. 
It was not in the purest style, yet it had an air of 
elegance, and the situation was delightful. A fine 
lawn sloped away from it, studded with clumps of 
trees, so disposed as to break a soft fertile country 
into a variety of landscapes. The Mersey was seen 
winding a broad quiet sheet of water through an 
expanse of green meadow land, while the Welsh 
mountains, blended with clouds, and melting into 
distance, bordered the horizon. 

This was Roscoe's favorite residence during the 
days of his prosperity. It had been the seat of 
elegant hospitality and literary retirement. The 
house was now silent and deserted. I saw the 
windows of the study, which looked out upon the 
soft scenery I have mentioned. The windows were 
closed — the library was gone. Two or three ill- 
favored beings were loitering about the place, whom 
my fancy pictured into retainers of the law. It 
was like visiting some classic fountain, that had 
once welled its pure waters in a sacred shade, but 
finding it dry and dusty, with the lizard and the 
toad brooding over the shattered marbles. 

I inquired after the fate of Mr. Roscoe's library, 
which had consisted of scarce and foreign books, 
from many of which he had drawn the materials for 



20 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

his Italian histories. It had passed under the ham- 
mer of tiie auctioneer, and was dispersed about the 
country. Tlie good people of the vicinity tlironged 
liked wreckers to get some part of the Uv^ble vessel 
that had been driven on shore. Did such a scene 
admit of ludicrous associations, we miirht imao:ine 
something whimsical in this strange irruption in 
the regions of learning. Pigmies rummaging the 
armory of a giant, and contending for the possession 
of weapons which they could not wield. We might 
picture to ourselves some knot of speculators, de- 
bating with calculating brow over the quaint bind- 
ing and illuminated margin of an obsolete author; 
of the air of intense, but baffled sagacity, with which 
some successful purchaser attempted to dive into 
the black-letter bargain he had secured. 

It is a beautiful incident in the storv of Mr. 
Roscoe's misfortunes, and one which cannot fail 
to interest the studious mind, that the parting with 
his books seems to have touched upon his tender- 
est feelings, and to have been the only circumstance 
that could provoke the notice of his muse. The 
scholar only knows how dear these silent, yet 
eloquent, companions of pure thoughts and inno- 
cent hours become in the season of adversity. 
When all that is worldly turns to dross around us, 
these only retain their steady value. When friends 
grow cold, and the converse of intimates languishes 
into vapid civility and commonplace, these only 
continue the unaltered countenance of happier 
days, and cheer us with that true friendship which 
never deceived hope, nor deserted sorrow. 

I do not wish to censure ; but, surely, if the 
people of Liverpool had been properly sensible of 



ROSCOE. 21 

what was due to Mr. Roscoe and themselves, 
his library would never have been sold. Good 
worldly reasons may, doubtless, be given for the 
circumstance, which it would be difficult to combat 
with others that might seem merely fanciful ; but 
it certainly appears to me such an opportunity as 
seldom occurs, of cheering a noble mind struggling 
under misfortunes by one of the most delicate, but 
most expressive tokens of public sympathy. It is 
difficult, howfever, to estimate a man of genius 
properly who' is daily before our eyes. He becomes 
mingled and confounded with other men. His 
great qualities lose their novelty ; we become too 
familiar with the common materials which form 
the basis even of the loftiest character. Some of Mr, 
Roscoe's townsmen may regard him merely as a 
man of business ; others, as a politician ; all find 
him engaged like themselves in ordinary occupa- 
tions, and surpassed, perhaps, by themselves on 
some points of worldly wisdom. Even that amiable 
and unostentatious simplicity of character, which 
gives the nameless grace to real excellence, may 
cause him to be undervalued by some coarse minds, 
who do not know that true worth is always void of 
glare and pretension. But the man of letters, who 
speaks of Liverpool, speaks of it as the residence 
of Roscoe. — The intelligent traveller who visits it 
inquires where Roscoe is to be seen. He is the 
literary landmark of the place, indicating its exist- 
ence to the distant scholar. — He is like Pompey's 
column at Alexandria, towering alone in classic 
dignity. 

The following sonnet, addressed by Mr. Roscoe 
to his books, on parting with them, has already 



22 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

been alluded to. If anything can add effect to 
the pure feeling and elevated thought here dis- 
played, it is the conviction, that the who leis no 
effusion of fancy, but a faithful transcript from the 
writer's heart. 

TO MY BOOKS. 

As one who, destined from his friends to part, 
Regrets his loss, but hopes again erewhile 
To share their converse and enjoy their smile. 

And tempers as he may affliction's dart ; 

Thus, loved associates, chiefs of elder art, 

Teachers of wisdom, who could once beguile 
My tedious hours, and lighten every toil, 

I now resign you ; nor with fainting heart ; 

For pass a few short years, or days, or hours. 
And happier seasons may their dawn unfold, 
And all your sacred fellowship restore : 
When, freed from earth, unlimited its powers. 
Mind shall with mind direct communion hold, 
And kindred spirits meet to part no more. 



THE WIFE. 23 



THE WIFE. 

The treasures of the deep are not so precious 
As are the concealed comforts of a man 
Lock'd up in woman's love. I scent the air 
Of blessings, when I came but near the house, 
What a delicious breath marriage sends forth — 
The violet bed 's no sweeter! 

MiDDLETON. 

I HAVE often had occasion to remark the fortitude 
with which women sustain the most overwhehning 
reverses of fortune. Those disasters which break 
down the spirit of a man, and prostrate him in the 
dust, seem to call forth all the energies of the softer 
sex, and give such intrepidity and elevation to their 
character, that at times it approaches to sublimity. 
Nothing can be more touching, than to behold a 
soft and tender female, who had been all weakness 
and dependence, and alive to every trivial rough- 
ness, while threading the prosperous paths of life, 
suddenly rising in mental force to be the comforter 
and support of her husband under misfortune, and 
abiding with unshrinking firmness the bitterest 
blasts of adversity. 

As the vine, which has long twined its graceful 
foliage about the oak, and been lifted by it into 
sunshine, will, when the hardy plant is rifted by the 
thunderbolt, cling round it with its caressing tendrils, 
and bind up its shattered boughs, so is it beauti- 
fully ordered by Providence, that woman, who is 



24 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

the mere dependent and ornament of man in his 
happier hours, should be his stay and solace when 
smitten with sudden calamity ; winding herself into 
the rugged recesses of his nature, tenderly support- 
ing the drooping head, and binding up the broken 
heart. 

I was once congratulating a friend, who had 
around him a blooming family, knit together in the 
strongest affection. " J can wish you no better lot," 
said he, with enthusiasm, " than to have a wife and 
children. If you are prosperous, there they are to 
share your prosperity ; if otherwise, there they are 
to comfort you." And, indeed, I have observed 
that a married man falling into misfortune, is more 
apt to retrieve his situation in the w'orld than a 
single one ; partly, because he is more stimulated 
to exertion by the necessities of the helpless and 
beloved beings who depend upon him for subsist- 
ence, but chieily because his spirits are soothed 
and relieved by domestic endearments, and his self- 
respect kept alive by finding, that, though all abroad 
is darkness and humiliation, yet there is still a little 
world of love at home, of which he is the monarch. 
Whereas, a single man is apt to run to w^aste and 
self-neglect; to fancy himself lonely and abandoned, 
and his heart to fall to ruin, like some deserted 
mansion, for want of an inhabitant. 

These observations call to mind a little domestic 
story, of which I was once a witness. My intimate 
friend, Leslie, had married a beautiful and accom- 
plished girl, who had been brought up in the midst 
of fashionable life. She had, it is true, no fortune, 
but that of my friend was ample ; and he delighted 
in the anticipation of indulging her in every elegant 



THE WIFE. 25 

pursuit, and administering to those delicate tastes 
and fancies that spread a kind of witchery about 
the sex. — " Her Hfe,"' said he, "shall be like a fairy 
tale." 

The very difference in their characters produced 
a harmonious combination ; he was of a romantic, 
and somewhat serious cast ; she w^as all life and 
gladness. I have often noticed the mute rapture 
with which he would gaze upon her in company, of 
which her sprightly powers made her the delight ; 
and how, in the midst of applause, her eye would 
still turn to him, as if there alone she sought favor 
and acceptance. When leaning on his arm, her 
slender form contrasted finely with his tall, manly 
person. The fond, confiding air with which she 
looked up to him seemed to call forth a flush of 
triumphant pride and cherishing tenderness, as if 
he doated on his lovely burden from its very helpless- 
ness. Never did a couple set forward on the flowery 
path of early and well-suited marriage with a fairer 
prospect of felicity. 

It was the misfortune of my friend, however, to 
have embarked his property in large speculations ; 
and he had not been married many months, when, 
by a succession of sudden disasters, it was swept 
from him, and he found himself reduced to almost 
penury. For a time he kept his situation to him- 
self, and went about w^ith a haggard countenance, 
and a breaking heart. His life was but a protracted 
agony ; and what rendered it more insupportable 
was the necessity of keeping up a smile in the pres- 
ence of his wife ; for he could not bring himself to 
overwhelm her with the news. She saw, however, 
with the quick eyes of affection, that all was not 



26 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

well with him. She marked his altered looks and 
stifled sighs, and was not to be deceived by his sickly 
and vapid attempts at cheerfulness. She tasked all 
her sprightly powers and tender blandishments to 
win him back to happiness ; but she only drove the 
arrow deeper into his soul. The more he saw cause 
to love her, the more torturing was the thought that 
he was soon to make her wretched. A little while, 
thought he, and the smile will vanish from that cheek 
— the song will die away from those lips — the lustre 
of those eyes will be quenched with sorrow ; and 
the happy heart which now beats lightly in that 
bosom, will be weighed down, like mine, by the cares 
and miseries of the world. 

At length he came to me one day, and related his 
whole situation in a tone of the deepest despair. 
When I had heard him through, I inquired : " Does 
your wife know all this ? " — At the question he burst 
into an agony of tears. " For God's sake ! " cried 
he, " if you have any pity on me don't mention my 
wife ; it is the thought of her that drives me almost 
to madness ! " 

"And why not.?" said I. "She must know i^ 
sooner or later : you cannot keep it long from her, 
and the intelligence may break upon her in a more 
startling manner than if imparted by yourself ; 
for the accents of those we love soften the harshest 
tidings. Besides, you are depriving yourself of the 
comforts of her sympathy ; and not merely that, but 
also endangering the only bond that can keep hearts 
together — an unreserved community of thought and 
feeling. She will soon perceive that something is 
secretly preying upon your mind ; and true love 
wMl not brook reserve ; it feels undervalued and 



THE WIFE. 27 

outraged, when even the sorrows of those it loves 
are concealed from it." 

" Ohj but my friend ! to think what a blow I am 
to give to all her future prospects, — how I am to 
strike her very soul to the earth, by telling her that 
her husband is a beggar ! that she is to forego all 
the elegancies of life — all the pleasures of society — 
to shrink with me into indigence and obscurity ! 
To tell her that I have dragged her down from the 
sphere in which she might have continued to move 
in constant brightness — the light of every eye — the 
admiration of every heart ! — How can she bear 
poverty ? She has been brought up in all the 
refinements of opulence. How can she bear neg- 
lect 1 She has been the idol of society. Oh, it 
will break her heart — it will break her heart ! " 

I saw his grief was eloquent, and 1 let it have its 
flow ; for sorrow relieves itself by words. When 
his paroxysm had subsided, and he had relapsed 
into moody silence, I resumed the subject gently, 
and urged him to break his situation at once to his 
wife. He shook his head mournfully, but posi- 
tively. 

" But how are you to keep it from her ? It is 
necessary she should know it, that you may take 
the steps proper to the alteration of your circum- 
stances. You must change your style of living — 
nay," observing a pang to pass across his counte- 
nance, "don't let that afflict you. I am sure you 
have never placed your happiness in outward show 
— you have yet friends, warm friends, who will not 
think the worse of you for being less splendidly 
lodged : and surely it does not require a palace to 
be happy with Mary " 



28 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

" I could be happy with her," cried he, convul- 
siveh^, " in a hovel ! — I could go down with her into 
poverty and the dust ! — I could — I could — God 
bless her ! — God bless her ! " cried he, bursting into 
a transport of grief and tenderness. 

"And believe me, my friend," said I, stepping 
up, and grasping him warmly by the hand, " believe 
me, she can be th same with you. Ay, more ; it 
will be a source of pride and triumph to her — it will 
call forth all the latent energies and fervent sym- 
pathies of her nature ; for she will rejoice to prove 
that she loves you for yourself. There is in every 
true woman's heart a spark of heavenly fire, which 
lies dormant in the broad daylight of prosperity ; 
but which kindles up, and beams, and blazes in the 
dark hour of adversity. No man knows what the 
wife of his bosom is — no man knows what a minis- 
tering angel she is — -until he has gone with her 
through the fiery trials of this world," 

There was something in the earnestness of my 
manner, and the figurative style of my language, 
that caught the excited imagination of Leslie. I 
knew the auditor I had to deal with ; and following 
up the impression I had made, I finished by per- 
suadinsf him to jro home and unburden his sad 
heart to his wife. 

I must confess, notwithstanding all I had said, I 
felt some little solicitude for the result. Who 
can calculate on the lortitude of one whose life 
has been a round of pleasures .'' Her gay spirits 
might revolt at the dark, downward path of low 
humility suddenly pointed out before her, and 
might cling to the sunny regions in which they had 
hitherto revelled. Besides, ruin in fashionable life 



THE IV/FE. 



2f 



is accompanied by so many galling mortification^ 
to which, in other ranks, it is a stranger. In short, 
I could not meet Leslie, the next morning, without 
trepidation. He had made the disclosure. 

" And how did she bear it ? " 

" Like an angel I It seemed rather to be a relief 
to her mind, for she threw her arms around my 
neck» and asked if this was all that had lately made 
me unhappy. — But, poor girl," added he, ''she can- 
not realize the change we must undergo. She has 
no idea of poverty but in the abstract; she has 
only read of it in poetry, where it is allied to love. 
She feels as yet no privation ; she suffers no loss 
of accustomed conveniences nor elegancies. When 
we come practically to experience its sordid cares, 
its paltry wants, its petty humiliations — then will 
be the real trial." 

" But," said I, '" now that you have got over the 
severest task, that of breaking it to her, the sooner 
you let the world into the secret the better. The 
disclosure may be mortifying ; but then it is a single 
misery, and soon over : whereas you otherwise 
suffer it, in anticipation, every hour in the day. It 
is not poverty, so much as pretence, that harasses 
a ruined man — the struggle between a proud mind 
and an empty purse — the keeping up a hollow show 
that must soon come to an end. Have the courage 
to appear poor, and you disarm poverty of its 
sharpest sting." On this point I found Leslie per- 
fectly prepared. He had no false pride himself, 
and as to his wife, she was only anxious to conform 
to their altered fortunes 

Some days afterwards, he called upon me in the 
evening. He had disposed of his dwelling-house, 



30 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

and taken a small cottage in the country, a few 
miles from town. He had been busied all day in 
sending out furniture. The new establishment re- 
quired few articles, and those of the simplest kind. 
AH the splendid furniture of his late residence had 
been sold, excepting his wife's harp. That, he said, 
was too closely associated with the idea of herself ; 
it belonged to the little story of their loves ; for 
some of the sweetest moments of their courtship 
were those when he had leaned over that i nstru 
ment, and listened to the meltmg tones of hervoice.- 
I could not but smile at this instance of romantic 
gallantry in a doating husband. 

He was now going out to the cottage, where his 
wife had been all day superintending its arrange- 
ment. My feelings had become strongly interested 
in the progress of his family story, and, as it was a 
fine evening, I offered to accompany him. 

He was wearied with the fatigues of the day, and, 
as we walked out, fell into a fit of gloomy musing. 

" Poor Mary ! " at length broke, with a heavy 
sigh, from his lips. 

" And what of her," asked I, " has anything hap- 
pened to her ? " 

" What," said he, darting an impatient glance, 
*' is it nothing to be reduced to this paltry situation 
— to be caged in a miserable cottage — to be obliged 
to toil almost in the menial concerns of her 
wretched habitation ? " 

" Has she then repined at the change ? " 

" Repined ! she has been nothing but sweetness 
and good-humor. Indeed, she seems in better 
spirits than I have ever known her ; she has been 
to me all love, and tenderness, and comfort 1 " 



THE WIFE, 31 

" Admirable girl ! " exclaimed I. " You call 
yourself poor, my friend ; you never were so rich, — ■ 
you never knew the boundless treasures of excel- 
lence you possessed in that woman." 

" Oh ! but, my friend, if this first meeting at the 
cottage were over, 1 think I could then be comfort- 
able. But this is her first day of real experience ; 
she has been introduced into a humble dwelling, — • 
she has been employed all day in arranging its 
miserable equipments, — she has, for the first time, 
known the fatigues of domestic employment, — 
she has, for the first time, looked around her on a 
home destitute of every thing elegant — almost of 
every thing convenient ; and may now be sitting 
down, exhausted and spiritless, brooding over a 
prospect of future poverty." 

There was a degree of probability in this pict- 
ure that I could not gainsay, so we walked on in 
silence. 

After turning from the main road up a narrow 
lane, so thickly shaded with forest-trees as to give 
it a complete air of seclusion, we came in sight of the 
cottage. It was humble enough in its appearance 
for the most pastoral poet ; and yet it had a pleas- 
ing rural look. A wild vine had overrun one end 
with a profusion of foliage ; a few trees threw their 
branches gracefully over it ; and I observed sev- 
eral pots of flowers tastefully disposed about the 
door, and on the grass-plot in front. A small 
wicket-gate opened upon a footpath that wound 
through some shrubbery to the door. Just as we 
approached, v/e heard the sound of music — Leslie 
grasped my arm ; we paused and listened. It was 
Mary's voice singing, in a style of the most touch- 



32 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

in^ simplicity, a little air of which her husband was 
peculiarly fond. 

I felt Leslie's hand tremble on my arm. He 
stepped forward, to hear more distinctly. His step 
made a noise on the gravel-walk. A bright beauti- 
ful face glanced out at the window, and vanished^ 
■3. light footstep was. heard — and Mary came trip- 
ping forth to meet us. She was in a pretty rural 
dress of white ; a few wild flowers were twisted in 
her fine hair; a fresh bloom was on her cheek; 
her whole countenance beamed with smiles — I had 
never seen her look so lovely. 

*' My dear George," cried she, " I am so glad 
you are come ; I have been watching and watching 
for vcni ; and runnino^ down the lane, and lookins: 
out ior \ov\. I 've set out a table under a beautiful 
tree behind the cottage ; and I 've been gathering 
some of the mos: delicious strawberries, for I know 
you are fond (v them — and we have such excellent 
cream — and eve. ^ :r-i':g is so sweet and still here — 
Oh ! " — said she, - ^\.' v-: her arm within his, and 
looking up brightly x" h -^ :ioe, '* Oh, we shall be so 
happy ! " 

Poor Leslie was ovovcome. — He caught her to 
his bosom — he folded his arms round her — he 
kissed her again and again— he could not speak, 
but the tears gushed into his eyes ; and he has 
often assured me, that thougii the world has since 
gone prosperously with him, and his life has, indeed, 
been a happy one, yet never has he experienced a 
moment of more exquisite felicity. 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 33 



RIP VAN WINKLi:,. 

A POSTHUMOUS WRITING OF DIEDRICH KNICKERBOv^XEK. 

By Woden, God of Saxons, 

From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday, 

Truth is a thing that ever I will keep 

Unto thylke day in which I creep into 

My sepulchre — Cartwright. 

[The following Tale was found among the papers of the 
late Diedrich Knickerbocker, an old gentleman of New 
York, who was very curious in the Dutch History of the 
province, and the manners of the descendants from its 
primitive settlers. His historical researches, however, did 
not lie so much among books as among men; for the for- 
mer are lamentably scanty on his favorite topics; whereas 
he found the old burghers, and still more, their wives, rich 
in that legendary lore, so invaluable to true history. When- 
ever, therefore, he happened upon a genuine Dutch family, 
snugly shut up in its low-roofed farm-house, under a 
spreading sycamore, he looked upon it as a little clasped 
volume of black-letter, and studied it with the zeal of a 
bookworm. 

The result of all these researches was a history of the 
province, during the reign of the Dutch governors, which 
he published some years since. There have been various 
opinions as to the literary character of his work, and to 
tell the truth, it is not a whit better than it should be. Iti,' 
chief merit is its scrupulous accuracy, which, indeed, was 
a little questioned, on its first appearance, but has since 
been completely established; and it is now admitted into 
all historical collections, as a book of unquestionable 
authority. 

The old gentleman died shortly after the publication of bis 



34 <rHE SKETCH-BOOK. 

work; and now that he is dead and gone, it cannot do much 
harm to his memory to say that his time might have been 
much better employed in weightier labors. He, however, 
was apt to ride his hobby his own way ; and though it 
did now and then kick up the dust a little in the eyes of his 
neighbors, and grieve the spirit of some friends, for whom he 
felt the truest deference and affection, yet his errors and 
follies are remembered " more in sorrow than in anger," 
and it begins to be suspected, that he never intended to 
injure or offend. But however his memory may be appreci- 
ated by critics, it is still held dear among many folks, whose 
good opinion is well worth having; particularly by certain 
biscuit-bakers, who have gone so far as to imprint his like- 
ness on their new-year cakes, and have thus given him a 
chance for immortality, almost equal to the being stamped 
on a Waterloo medal, or a Queen Anne's farthing.] 

Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson 
must remember the Kaatskill mountains. They are 
a dismembered branch of the great Appalachian 
family, and are seen away to the west of the river, 
swelling up to a noble height, and lording it over 
the surrounding country. Every change of season, 
every change of weather, indeed, every hour of the 
day produces some change in the magical hues and 
shapes of these mountains ; and they are regarded 
by all the good wives, far and near, as perfect barom- 
eters. When the weather is fair and settled, they 
are clothed in blue and purple, and print their bold 
outlines on the clear evening sky ; but sometimes, 
when the rest of the landscape is cloudless, they 
will gather a hood of gray vapors about their sum- 
mits, which, in the last rays of the setting sun, will 
glow and light up like a crown of glory. 

At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager 
may have descried the light smoke curling up from 
a village, whose shingle roofs gleam among the 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 



35 



trees, just where the blue tints of the upland melt 
away into the fresh green of the nearer landscape. 
It is a little village of great antiquity, having been 
founded by some of the Dutch colonists, in the early 
times of the province, just about the beginning of 
the government of the good Peter Stuyvesant (may 
he rest in peace !), and there were some of the 
houses of the original settlers standing within a 
few years, built of small yellow bricks, brought 
from Holland, having latticed windows and gable 
fronts, surmounted with weathercocks. 

In that same village, and in one of these very 
houses (which, to tell the precise truth, was sadly 
time-worn and weather-beaten), there lived, many 
years since, while the country was yet a province of 
Great Britain, a simple, good-natured fellow, of the 
name of Rip Van Winkle. He was a descendant 
of the Van Winkles who figured so gallantly in the 
chivalrous days of Peter Stuyvesant, and accom- 
panied him to the siege of Fort Christina. He in- 
herited, however, but little of the martial character 
of his ancestors. I have observed that he was a 
simple, good-natured man ; he was, moreover, a kind 
neighbor, and an obedient henpecked husband. 
Indeed, to the latter circumstance might be owing 
that meekness of spirit which gained him such 
universal popularity; for those men are apt to 
be obsequious and conciliating abroad, who are 
under the discipline of shrews at home. Their 
tempers, doubtless, are rendered pliant and malle- 
able in the fiery furnace of domestic tribulation, 
and a curtain-lecture is worth all the sermons in 
the world for teaching the virtues of patience and 
long-suffering. A termagant wife may, therefore, 



36 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

in some respects, be considered a tolerable blessiiag, 
and if so, Rip Van Winkle was thrice blessed. 

Certain it is, that he was a great favorite among 
all the good wivps of the village, who, as usual with 
the amiable sex, took his part in all family squab- 
bles, and never failed, whenever they talked those 
matters over in their evening gossipings, to lay all 
the blame on Dame Van Winkle. The children of 
the village, too, would shout with joy whenever 
he approached. He assisted at their sports, made 
their playthings, taught them to fiy kites and shoot 
marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts, 
witches, and Indians. Whenever he went dodging 
about the village, he was surrounded by a troop 
of them hanging on his skirts, clambering on his 
back, and playing a thousand tricks on him with 
impunity ; and not a dog would bark at him 
throughout the neighborhood. 

The great error in Rip's composition was an in- 
superable aversion to all kinds of profitable labor. 
It could not be for want of assiduity or persever- 
ance ; for he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod 
as long and heavy as a Tartar's lance, and fish 
all day without a murmur, even though he should 
not be encouraged by a single nibble. He would 
carry a fowling-piece on his shoulder, for hours to- 
gether, trudging through woods and swamps, and 
up hill and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or 
wild pigeons. He would never refuse to assist a 
neighbor even in the roughest toil, and was a fore- 
most man in all country frolics for husking Indian 
corn, or building stone fences ; the women of the 
village, too, used to employ him to run their errands, 
and to do such little odd jobs as their less obliging 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 37 

husbands would not do for them. In a word, Rip 
was ready to attend to anybody's business but his 
own ; but as to doing family duty, and keeping his 
farm in order, he found it impossible. 

In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on 
his farm ; it was the most pestilent little piece of 
ground in the whole country ; everything about 
it went wrong, in spite of him. His fences 
were continually falling to pieces ; his cow 
would either go astray, or get among the cab- 
bages ; weeds were sure to grow quicker in his 
fields than anywhere else; the rain always made a 
point of setting in just as he had some out-door 
work to do ; so that though his patrimonial estate 
had dwindled away under his management, acre by 
acre, until there was little more left than a mere 
patch of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it was the 
worst conditioned farm in the neighborhood. 

His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if 
they belonged to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin 
begotten in his own likeness, promised to inherit 
the habits, with the old clothes, of his father. He 
was generally seen trooping like a colt at his 
mother's heels, equipped in a pair of his father's 
cast-off galligaskins, which he had much ado to 
hold up with one hand, as a fine lady does her 
train in bad weather. 

Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those 
happy mortals, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, 
who take the world easy, eat white bread or brown, 
whichever can be got with least thought or trouble, 
and would rather starve on a penny than work for 
a pound. If left to himself, he would have whistled 
life away, in perfect contentment ; but his wife kept 



38 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

continually dinning in his ears about his idleness, 
his carelessness, and the ruin he was bringing on 
his family. Morning, noon, and night, her tongue 
was incessantly going, and every thing he said or 
did was sure to produce a torrent of household 
eloquence. Rip had but one way of replying to 
all lectures of the kind, and that, by frequent use, 
had grown into a habit. He shrugged his shoulders, 
shook his head, cast up his eyes, but said nothing. 
This, however, always provoked a fresh volley from 
his wife, so that he was fain to draw off his forces, 
and take to the outside of the house — the only side 
which, in truth, belongs to a henpecked husband. 

Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, 
who was as much henpecked as his master ; for 
Dame Van Winkle regarded them as companions 
in idleness, and even looked upon Wolf with an 
evil eye, as the cause of his master's going so often 
astray. True it is, in all points of spirit befitting 
an honorable dog. he was as courageous an animal 
as ever scoured the woods — but what courage can 
withstand the evil-doing and all-besetting terrors 
of a woman's tongue ? The moment Wolf entered 
the house, his crest fell, his tail drooped to the 
ground, or curled between his legs, he sneaked 
about with a gallows air, casting many a sidelong 
glance at Dame Van Winkle, and at the least flour- 
ish of a broomstick or ladle, he would fly to the 
door with yelping precipitation. 

Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van 
Winkle as years of matrimony rolled on ; a tart 
temper never mellows with age, and a sharp tongue 
is the only edged tool that grows keener with con- 
stant use. For a long while he used to console 



RIP VAX WIXKLE. 39 

himself, when driven from home, by frequenting a 
kind of perpetual club of the sages, philosophers, 
and other idle personages of the village, which held 
its sessions on a bench before a small inn, des- 
ignated by a rubicund portrait of his Majesty 
George the Third. Here they used to sit in the 
shade through a long, lazy summer's day, talking list- 
lessly over village gossip, or telling endless, sleepy 
stories about nothinjr. But it would have been 
worth any statesman's money to have heard the 
profound discussions which sometimes took place, 
when by chance an old newspaper fell into their 
hands from some passing traveller. How solemnly 
they would listen to the contents, as drawled out 
by Derrick Van Bummel. the school-master, a 
dapper learned little man. who was not to be 
daunted bv the most gigantic word in the diction- 
ary : and how sagely they would deliberate upon 
public events some months after they had taken 
place. 

The opinions of this junto were completely con- 
trolled by Vicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the vil- 
lage, and landlord of the inn. at the door of which 
he took his seat from morning till night, just mov- 
ing sufficiently to avoid the sun. and keep in the 
shade of a large tree : so that the neighbors could 
tell the hour by his movements as accurately as by 
a sun-dial. It is true, he was rarely heard to speak, 
but smoked his pipe incessantlv. His adherents, 
however (for every great man has his adherents), 
perfectly understood him, and knew how to gather 
his opinions. When any thing that was read or 
related displeased him, he was observed to smoke 
his pipe vehemently, and to send forth short, fre- 



40 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

quent, and angry puffs ; but when pleased, he 
would inhale the smoke slowly and tranquilly, and 
emit it in light and placid clouds, and sometimes, 
aking the pipe from his mouth, and letting the 
/agrant vapor curl about his nose, would gravely 
nod his head in token of perfect approbation. 

From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was 
at length routed by his termagant wife, who would 
suddenly break in upon the trarrqujllity of the 
assemblage, and call the members all to nought ; 
nor was that august personage, Nicholas Vedder 
himself, sacred from the daring tongue of this terri- 
ble virago, who charged him outright with encour- 
aging her husband in habits of idleness. 

Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair; 
and his only alternative, to escape from the labor 
of the farm and the clamor of his wife, was to take 
gun in hand, and stroll away into the woods. Here 
he would sometimes seat himself at the foot of a 
tree, and share the contents of his wallet with Wolf, 
with whom he sympathized as a fellow-sufferer in 
persecution. " Poor Wolf," he would say, " thy 
mistress leads thee a dog's life of it ; but never 
mind, my lad, whilst I live thou shalt never want 
a friend to stand by thee ! " Wolf would wag his 
tail, look wistfully in his master's face, and if dogs 
can feel pity, I verily believe he reciprocated the 
sentiment with all his heart. 

In a long ramble of the kind, on a fine autumnal 
day, Rip had unconsciously scrambled to one of 
the highest parts of the Kaatskill mountains. He 
was after his favorite sport of squirrel-shooting, 
and the still solitudes had echoed and re-echoed 
with the reports of his gun. Panting and fatigued, 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 41 

he threw himself, Lite in tiie afternoon, on a green 
knoll, covered with mountain herbage, that crowned 
the brow of a precipice. From an opening between 
the trees, he could overlook all the lower country 
for many a mile of rich woodland. He saw at a 
distance the lordly Hudson, far, far below him, 
moving on its silent but majestic course, with the 
reflection of a purple cloud, or the sail of a lagging 
bark, here and there sleeping on its glassy bosom, 
and at last losing itself in the blue highlands. 

On the other side he looked down into a deep 
mountain glen, wild, lonely, and shagged, the bot- 
tom filled with fragments from the impending cliffs, 
and scarcely lighted by the reflected rays of the 
setting sun. For some time Rip lay musing on this 
scene ; evening was gradually advancing ; the 
mountains began to throw their long blue- shadows 
over the vallevs : he saw that it would be dark lone: 
before he could reach the village ; and he heaved 
a heavy sigh when he thought of encountering the 
terrors of Dame Van Winkle. 

As he was about to descend, he heard a voice 
from a distance hallooing : " Rip Van Winkle ! 
Rip Van Winkle ! " He looked around, but could 
see nothing but a crow winging its solitary flight 
across the mountain. He thought his fancy must 
have deceived him, and turned again to descend, 
when he heard the same cry ring through the still 
evening air, " Rr^> Van Winkle ! Rip Van Win- 
kle ! " — at the smu^ time Wolf bristled up his 
back, and giving a Viw growl, skulked to his mas- 
ter's side, looking '■'earfuUy down into the glen. 
Rip now felt a vague apprehension stealing over 
hnn ; he looked anxious! v iu the same direction, 



42 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

and perceived a strange figure slowly toiling up 
the rocks, and bending under the weight of some- 
thing he carried on his back. He was surprised to 
see any human being in this lonely and unfrequent- 
ed place, but supposing it to be some one of the 
neighborhood in need of his assistance, he has- 
tened down to yield it. 

On nearer approach, he was still more surprised 
at the singularity of the stranger's appearance. 
He was a short, square-built old fellow, with thick 
bushy hair, and a grizzled beard. His dress was 
of the antique Dutch fashion — a cloth jerkin 
strapped round the waist — several pairs of breeches, 
the outer one of ample volume, decorated with 
rows of buttons down the sides, and bunches at 
the knees. He bore on his shoulders a stout keg, 
that seemed full of liquor, and made signs for Rip 
to approach and assist him with the load. Though 
rather shy and distrustful of this new acquaintance, 
Rip complied with his usual alacrity ; and mutu- 
ally relieving each other, they clambered up a nar- 
row gully, apparently the dry bed of a mountain 
torrent. As they ascended. Rip every now and 
then heard long rolling peals, like distant thunder, 
that seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather 
cleft between lofty rocks, toward which their rug- 
ged path conducted. He paused for an instant, 
but supposing it to be the muttering of one of 
those transient thunder-showers which often take 
place in the mountam heights, he proceeded. Pass- 
ing through the ravine, they came to a hollow, like 
a small amphitheatre, surrounded by perpendicular 
precipices, over the brinks of which impending trees 
shot their branches, so thai you only caught glimpses 



RIP VAiV WINKLE. 



43 



of the azure sky, and the bright evening cloud. Dur« 
ing the whole time Rip and his companion had 
labored on in silence ; for though the former mar- 
velled greatly what could be the object of carrying 
a keg of liquor up this wild mountain, yet there 
was something strange and incomprehensible about 
the unknown, that inspired awe, and checked famil- 
iarity. 

On entering the amphitheatre, new objects of 
wonder presented themselves. On a level spot in 
the centre was a company of odd-looking person- 
ages playing at ninepins. They were dressed in 
quaint outlandish fashion ; some wore short doub- 
lets, others jerkins, with long knives in their belts, 
and most of them had enormous breeches, of 
similar stvle with that of the p:uide's. Their vis- 
ages, too, were peculiar ; one had a large head, 
broad face, and small piggish eyes ; the face of 
another seemed to consist entirely of nose, and was 
surmounted by a white sugar-loaf hat, set off with 
a little red cock's tail. They all had beards, of 
various shapes and colors. There was one who 
seemed to be the commander. He was a stout 
old gentleman, with a weather-beaten countenance ; 
he wore a laced doublet, broad belt and hanger, 
high-crowned hat and feather, red stockings, and 
high-heeled shoes, with roses in them. The whole 
group reminded Rip of the figures in an old Flemish 
painting, in tlic parlor of Dominie Van Schaick, 
the village parson, and which had been brought 
over from Holland at the time of the settlement. 

What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, that 
though these folk^' were evidently amusing them- 
selves, yet they maintained the gravest faces, the 



44 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 



most mysterious silence, and were, withal, the most 
melancholy party of pleasure he had ever wit- 
nessed. Nothing interrupted the stillness of the 
scene but the noise of the balls, which, whenever 
they were rolled, echoed along the mountains like 
rumbling peals of thunder. 

As Rip and his companion approached them, 
they suddenly desisted from their play, and stared 
at him with such a fixed statue-like gaze, and such 
strange, uncouth, lack-lustre countenances, that 
his heart turned within him, and his knees smote 
together. His companion now emptied the con- 
tents of the keg into large flagons, and made signs 
to him to wait upon the company. He obeyed 
with fear and trembling ; they quaffed the liquor 
in profound silence, and then returned to their 
game. 

By degrees. Rip's awe and apprehension sub- 
sided, He even ventured, when no eye was fixed 
upon him, to taste the beverage which he found had 
much of the flavor of excellent Hollands. He was 
naturally a thirsty soul, and was soon tempted to 
repeat the draught. One taste provoked another ; 
and he reiterated his visits to the flagon so often, 
that at length his senses were overpowered, his 
eyes swam in his head, his head gradually declined, 
and he fell into a deep sleep. 

On waking, he found himself on the green knoll 
whence he had first seen the old man of the 
glen. He rubbed his eyes — it was a bright sunny 
morning. The birds were hopping and twittering 
among the bushes, and the eagle was wheeling 
aloft, and breasting the pure mountain breeze. 
" Surely," thought Rip, " I have not slept here all 



RIP V-AN WINKLE. 



45 



night." He recalled the occurrences before he fell 
asleep. The strange man with the keg of liquor — 
the mountain ravine — the wild retreat among the 
rocks — the woe-begone party at ninepins — the 
flagon — " Oh ! that flagon ! that wicked flagon ! " 
thought Rip — "what excuse shall I make to 
Dame^Van Winkle?" 

He looked round for his gun, but in place of the 
clean well-oiled fowling-piece, he found an old fire- 
lock lying by him, the barrel encrusted with rust, 
the lock falling off, and the stock worm-eaten. He 
now suspected that the grave roysterers of the 
mountains had put a trick upon him, and, having 
dosed him with liquor, had robbed him of his gun. 
Wolf, too, had disappeared, but he might have 
strayed away after a squirrel or partridge. He 
whistled after him and shouted his name, but all in 
rain ; the echoes repeated his whistle and shout, 
but no dog was to be seen. 

He determined to revisit the scene of the last 
evening's gambol, and if he met with any of the 
party, to demand his dog and gun. As he rose to 
walk, he found himself stiff in the joints, and want- 
ing in his usual activity. " These mountain beds do 
not agree with me," thought Rip, " and if this frolic 
should lay me up with a fit of the rheumatism, I 
shall have a blessed time with Dame Van Winkle," 
With some difficulty he got down into the glen : he 
found the gully up which he and his companion 
had ascended the preceding evening; but to his 
astonishment a mountain stream was now foaming 
down it, leaping from rock to rock, and filling the 
glen with babbling murmurs. He, however, made 
shift to scramble up its sides, working his toilsome 



46 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

way through thickets of birch, sassafras, and witch- 
hazel ; and sometimes tripped up or entangled by 
the wild grape vines that twisted their coils and 
tendrils from tree to tree, and spread a kind of net- 
work in his path. 

At length he reached to where the ravine had 
opened through the cliffs to the amphitheatre ; but 
no traces of such opening remained. The rocks 
presented a high impenetrable wall, over which the 
torrent came tumbling in a sheet of feathery foam, 
and fell into a broad deep basin, black from the 
shadows of the surrounding forest. Here, then, 
poor Rip was brought to a stand. He again called 
and whistled after his dog; he was only answered 
by the cawing of a flock of idle crows, sporting 
high in the air about a dry tree that overhung a 
sunny precipice ; and who, secure in their elevation, 
seemed to look down and scoff at the poor man's 
perplexities. What was to be done .'' The morning 
was passing away, and Rip felt famished for want 
of his breakfast. He grieved to give up his dog 
and gun ; he dreaded to meet his wife ; but it 
would not do to starve among the mountains. He 
shook his head, shouldered the rusty firelock, and, 
with a heart full of trouble and anxiety, turned his 
steps homeward. 

As he approached the village, he met a number 
of people, but none whom he new, which somewhat 
surprised him, for he had thought himself acquainted 
with every one in the country round. Their dress, 
too, was of a different fashion from that to which 
he was accustomed. They all stared at him with 
equal marks of surprise, and whenever they cast 
eyes upon him, invariably stroked their chins. The 



KIP VAN WINKLE. 47 

constant recurrence of this gesture, induced Rip, 
involuntarily, to do, the same, when, to his astonish- 
ment, he found his beard had grown a foot long ! 

He had now entered the skirts of the village. 
A troop of strange children ran at his heels, hoot- 
ing after him, and pointing at his gray beard. 
The dogs, too, not one of which he recognized for 
an old acquaintance, barked at him as he passed. 
The very village was altered : it was larger and 
more populous. There were rows of houses which 
he had never seen before, and those which had 
been his familiar haunts had disappeared. Strange 
names were over the doors — strange faces at the 
windows — everything was strange. His mind now 
misgave him ; he began to doubt whether both he 
and the world around him w^ere not bewitched. 
Surely this was his native village, which he had 
left but a day before. There stood the Kaatskill 
mountains — there ran the silver Hudson at a dis- 
tance — there was every hill and dale precisely as 
it had always been — Rip was sorely perplexed — 
" That flagon last night," thought he, " has addled 
my poor head sadly ! " 

It was with some difficulty that he found the 
way to his own house, which he approached with 
silent awe, expecting every moment to hear the 
shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. He found the 
house gone to decay — the roof had fallen in, the win- 
dows shattered, and the doors off the hinges. A 
half-starved dog, that looked like Wolf, was skulking 
about it. Rip called him by name, but the cur 
snarled, showed his teeth, and passed on. This 
was an unkind cut indeed. — " My very dog," 
sighed poor Rip, " has forgotten me ! " 



48 THE SKEI'CII-DOOK. 

He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, 
Dame Van Winkle had always kept in neat order. 
It was empty, forlorn, and apparently abandoned. 
This desolateness overcame all his connubial fears 
— he called loudly for his wife and children — the 
lonely chambers rang for a moment with his voice, 
and then all again was silence. 

He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old 
resort, the village inn— but it too was gone. A 
large rickety wooden building stood in its place, 
with great gaping windows, some of them broken, 
and mended with old hats and petticoats, and over 
the door was painted, "The Union Hotel, by 
Jonathan Doolitlle." Instead of the great tree 
that used to shelter the quiet little Dutch inn of 
yore, there now was reared a tall naked pole, with 
something on the top that looked like a red night- 
cap, and from it was fluttering a flag, on which 
was a singular assemblage of stars and stripes — 
all this was strange and incomprehensible. He 
recognized on tlie sign, however, the ruby face of 
King George, under which he had smoked so many 
a peaceful pipe, but even this was singularly meta- 
morphosed. The red coat was changed for one of 
blue and buff, a sword was held in the hand instead 
of a sceptre, the head was decorated with a cocked 
hat, and underneath was painted in large characters, 
" General Washington." 

There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the 
door, but none that Rip recollected. The very 
character of the people seemed changed. There 
was a busy, bustling, disputatious tone about it, 
instead of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy trai> 
quillity. He looked in vain for the sage Nicholas 



RIP VAN WIXA'LE. 



49 



Vedder, with his broad face, double chin, and fair 
long pipe, uttering clouds of tobacco-smoke, instead 
of idle speeches ; or Van Bummel, the schoolmaster 
doling forth the contents of an ancient newspaper. 
In place of these, a lean, bilious-looking fellow, 
with his pockets full of handbills, was haranguing 
vehemently about rights of citizens — elections — 
members of Congress — liberty — Bunker's hill — 
heroes of seventy-six — and other words, which were 
a perfect Babylonish jargon to the bewildered Van 
Winkle. 

The appearance of Rip, with his long, grizzled 
beard, his rusty fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, 
and the army of women and children at his 
heels, soon attracted the attention of the tavern 
politicians. They crowded round him, eying 
him from head to foot, with great curiosit}-. 
The orator bustled up to him, and, drawing him 
partly aside, inquired, ''on which side he voted ?" 
Rip stared in vacant stupidity. Another short but 
busy little fellow pulled him by the arm, and rising 
on tiptoe, inquired in his ear, "whether he was 
Federal or Democrat." Rip was equally at a loss to 
comprehend the question ; when a knowing, self- 
important old gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat, 
made his way through the crowd, putting them to 
the right and left with his elbows as he passed, and 
planting himself before Van Winkle, with one arm 
akimbo, the other resting on his cane, his keen 
eyes and sharp hat penetrating, as it were, into his 
very soul, demanded in an austere tone, " What 
brought him to the election with a gun on his 
shoulder, and a mob at his heels; and whether he 
meant to breed a riot in the village ? " 



50 7^ HE SKETCH-BOOK. 

"Alas! gentlemen," cried Rip, somewhat dis- 
mayed, "1 am a poor, quiet man, a native of the 
place, and a loyal subject of the King, God bless 
him ! " 

Here a general shout burst from the bystanders 
— " a tory ! a tory ! a spy ! a refugee ! hustle him ! 
away with him ! " It was with great diificulty that 
the self-important man in the cocked hat restored 
order; and having assumed a tenfold austerity of 
brow, demanded again of the unknown culprit, what 
he came there for, and whom he was seeking. The 
poor man humbly assured him that he meant no 
harm, but merely came there in search of some of 
his neighbors, who used to keep about the tavern. 

" Well — who are they ? — name them." 

Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, 
"Where 's Nicholas Vedder? " 

There was a silence for a little while, when an 
old man replied, in a thin, piping voice, " Nicholas 
Vedder ? why, he is dead and gone these eighteen 
years ! There was a wooden tombstone in the 
churchyard that used to tell all about him, but that's 
rotten and gone too." 

" Where 's Brom Dutcher ? " 

" Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of 
the war ; some say he was killed at the storming 
of Stony-Point — others say he was drowned in a 
squall at the foot of Antony's Nose. I don't know 
— he never came back again." 

"Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster ? " 

" He went off to the wars, too ; was a great militia 
general, and is now in Congress." 

Rip's heart died away, at hearing of these sad 
changes in his home and friends, and finding him 



KIP VAN WINKLE. 



51 



self thus alone in the world. Every answer puzzled 
him too, by treating of such enormous lapses of 
time, and of matters which he could not understand : 
war — Congress — Stony-Point ; — he had no courage 
to ask after any more friends, but cried out in de- 
spair, " Does nobody here know Rip Van Winkle ? " 

" Oh, Rip Van Winkle ! " exclaimed two or three. 
" Oh, to be sure ! that's Rip Van Winkle yonder, 
leaning against the tree." 

Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of 
himself as he went up the mountain ; apparently as 
lazy, and certainly as ragged. The poor fellow was 
now completely confounded. He doubted his own 
identity, and whether he was himself or another 
man. In the midst of his bewilderment, the man 
in the cocked hat demanded who he was, and what 
was his name 1 

" God knows ! " exclaimed he at his wit's end ; 
" I 'm not myself — I 'm somebody else — that 's me 
yonder — no — that 's somebody else, got into my 
shoes — I was myself last night, but I fell asleep on 
the mountain, and they 've changed my gun, and 
every thing 's changed, and I 'm changed, and I can't 
tell what 's my name, or who I am ! " 

The by-standers began now to look at each other, 
nod, wink significantly, and tap their fingers 
against their foreheads. There was a whisper, also, 
about securing the gun, and keeping the old fellow 
from doing mischief ; at the very suggestion of 
which, the self-important man with the cocked 
hat retired with some precipitation. At this crit- 
ical moment a fresh, comely woman pressed through 
the throng to get a peep at the gray-bearded man 
She had a chubby child in her arms, which, fright- 



52 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

ened at his looks, began to cry. " Hush, Rip," cried 
she, "hush, you Httle fool; the old man won't 
hurt you." The name of the child, the air of the 
mother, the tone of her voice, all awakened a train 
of recollections in his mind. 

" What is your name, my good woman \ '' asked he. 

" Judith Gardenier." 

" And your father's name? " 

" Ah, poor man. Rip Van Winkle was his name, 
but it 's twenty years since he went away from home 
with his gun, and never has been heard of since, — • 
his dog came home without him ; but whether he 
shot himself, or was carried away by the Indians, 
nobody can tell. I was then but a little girl." 

Rip had but one more question to ask ; but he 
put it with a faltering voice : 

" Where 's your mother ? " 

Oh, she too had died but a short time since ; 
she broke a blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a 
New-England pedler. 

There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this 
intelligence. The honest man could contain him- 
self no longer. He caught his daughter and her 
child in his arms. " I am your father ! " cried he — 
" Young Rip Van Winkle once — old Rip Van 
Winkle now — Does nobody know poor Rip Van 
Winkle!" 

All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering 
out from among the crowd, put her hand to her 
brow, and peering under it in his face for a moment 
exclaimed, " Sure enough ! it is Rip Van Winkle^ 
it is himself. W^elcome home again, old neighbor. 
Why, where have you been these twenty long 
years ? " 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 53 

Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty 
years had been to him but as one night. The neigh- 
bors stared when they heard it ; some were seen 
to wink at each other, and put their tongues in 
their cheeks ; and the self-important man in the 
cocked hat, who, when the alarm was over, had 
returned to the field, screwed down the corners of 
his mouth, and shook his head — upon which there 
was a g;eneral shaking of the head throughout the 
assemblage. 

It was determined, however, to take the opinion 
of old Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly 
advancing up the road. He was a descendant of 
tne historian of that name, who wrote one of the 
earliest accounts of the province. Peter was the 
most ancient inhabitant of the village, and well 
versed in a'l the wonderful events and traditions of 
the neighborhood. He recollected Rip at once, 
and corroborated his story in the most satisfactory 
manner. He assured the company that it was a 
fact, handed down from his ancestor, the historian, 
that the Kaatskill mountains had always been 
haunted by strange beings. That it was affirmed 
that the great Hendrick Hudson, the first discov- 
erer of the river and country, kept a kind of vigil 
there every twenty years, with his crew of the Half- 
moon ; being permitted in this way to revisit the 
scenes of his enterprise, and keep a guardian eye 
upon the river and the great city called by his 
name. That his father had once seen them in their 
old Dutch dresses playing at ninepins in the 
hollow of the mountain ; and that he himself had 
heard, one summer afternoon, the sound of their 
balls, like distant peals of thunder. 



54 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 



To make a long story short, the company broke 
up, and returned to the more important concerns 
of the election. Rip's daughter took him home to 
live with her ; she had a snug, well-furnished house, 
and a stout cheery farmer for a husband, whom 
Rip recollected for one of the urchins that used to 
climb upon his back. As to Rip's son and heir, 
who was the ditto of himself, seen leaning against 
the tree, he was employed to work on the farm ; 
but evinced an hereditary disposition to attend to 
any thing else but his business. 

Rip now resumed his old walks and habits ; he 
soon found many of his former cronies, though all 
rather the worse for the wear and tear of time ; and 
preferred making friends among the rising genera- 
tion, with whom he soon grew into great favor. 

Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived 
at that happy age when a man can be idle with 
impunity, he took his place once more on the bench, 
at the inn door, and was reverenced as one of the 
patriarchs of the village, and a chronicle of the old 
times " before the war." It was some time before 
he could get into the regular track of gossip, or 
could be made to comprehend the strange events 
that had taken place during his torpor. H6w that 
there had been a revolutionary war — that the coun- 
try had thrown off the yoke of old England — and 
that, instead of being a subject to his Majesty 
George the Third, he was now a free citizen of the 
United States. Rip, in fact, was no politician ; the 
changes of states and empires made but little im- 
pression on hitn ; but there was one species of 
despotism under which he had long groaned, and 
that was — petticoat government. Happily, that 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 55 

was at an end ; he had got his neck out of the yoke 
of matrimony, and could go in and out whenever h^ 
pleased, without dreading the tyranny of Dame Van 
Winkle. Whenever her name was mentioned, how- 
ever, lie shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, 
and cast up his eyes ; which might pass either foi 
an expression of resignation to his fate, or joy at 
his deliverance. 

He used to tell his story to every stranger that 
arrived at Mr. Doolittle's hotel. He was observed, 
at first, to vary on some points every time he told 
it, which was, doubtless, owing to his having so 
recently awaked. It at last settled down precisely 
to the tale I have related, and not a man, woman, 
or child in the neighborhood, but knew it by heart. 
Some always pretended to doubt the reality of it, 
and insisted that Rip had been out of his head, 
and that this was one point on which he always 
remained flighty. The old Dutch inhabitants, how- 
ever, almost universally gave it full credit. Even 
to this day, they never hear a thunder-storm of a 
summer afternoon about the Kaatskill, but they say 
Hendrick Hudson and his crew are at their game 
of ninepins ; and it is a common wish of all hen- 
pecked husbands in the neighborhood, when life 
hangs heavy on their hands, that they might have 
a quieting draught out of Rip Van Winkle's flagon. 

NOTE. 

The foregoing tale, one would suspect, had Ijeen suggested 
to Mr. Knickerbocker by a little German superstition about 
the Emperor Frederick dcr Rothbart and the Kypphauser 
mountain ; the subjoined note, however, which he had ap- 
pended to the tale, shows that it is an absolute fact, narrated 
with his usual fidelity. 



S6 



THE SKETCH-BOOK, 



" The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem incredible to 
many, but nevertheless I give it my full belief, for 1 know the 
vicinity of our old Dutch settlements to have been very sub- 
ject to marvellous events and appearances. Indeed, I have 
heard many stranger stories than this, in the villages along 
the Hudson ; all of which were too well authenticated to 
admit of a doubt. I have even talked with Rip Van Winkle 
myself, who, when last I saw him, was a very venerable old 
man, and so perfectly rational and consistent on every other 
point, that I think no conscientious person could refuse to 
take this into the bargain; nay, I have seen a certificate on 
the suliject taken before a country justice, and signed with 
a cross, in the justice's own handwriting. The story, there- 
fore, is beyond the possibility of doubt. 



" D. K." 



POSTSCRIPT. 



The follov/ing are travelling notes from a memorandum- 
book of Mr. Knickerl:)ocker : 

The Kaatsberg or Catskill mountains have always been a 
region full of fable. The Indians considered them the abode 
of spirits, who influenced the weather, spreading sunshine or 
clouds over the landscape, and sending good or bad hunting 
seasons. They were ruled Ijy an old squaw spirit, said to lie 
their mother. She dwelt on the highest peak of the Catskills, 
and had charge of tlie doors of day and night. to open and 
shut them at the proper hour. She hung up the new moons 
in the skies, and cut up the old ones into stars. In times of 
drought, if properly propitiated, she would spin light summer 
clouds out of cobwebs and morning dew, and send them off 
from the crest of the mountain, flake after flake, like flakes 
of carded cotton, to float in the air; until, dissolved by the 
heat of the sun, they would fall in gentle showers, causing 
the grass to spring, the fruits to ripen, and the corn to grow 
an inch an hour. If displeased, however, she would brew up 
clouds black as ink, sitting in the midst of them like a bottle- 
bellied spider in the midst of its welj ; and when these clouds 
broke, woe betide the valleys ! 

In old times, say the Indian traditions, there was a kind of 
Manitou or Spirit, wlio kept about the wildest recesses of the 
Catskill mountains, and took a mischievous pleasure in wreak- 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 57 

jiig all kind of evils and vexations upon the red men. Some- 
times he would assume the form of a bear, a panther, or a 
deer, lead the bewildered hunter a weary chase through tan- 
gled forests and among ragged rocks, and then spring off 
with a loud ho! ho 1 leaving him aghast on the brink of a 
beetling precipice or raging torrent. 

The favorite aljode of this Manitou is still shown. It is a 
great rock or cliff on the loneliest part of the mountains, and, 
from the flowering vines which clamber about it, and the wild 
flowers which al,iound in its neighborhood, is known ])y the 
name of the Garden Rock. Near the foot of it is a small 
lake, the haunt of the solitary bittern, with water-snakes bask- 
ing in the sun on the leaves of the pond-lilies which lie on 
the surface. This place was held in great awe by the Indians, 
insomuch that the boldest hunter would not pursue his game 
within its precincts. Once upon a time, however, a hunter 
who had lost his way penetrated to the Garden Rock, where 
he beheld a number of gourds placed in thecFotches of trees. 
One of these he seized and made off with it, but in the hurry 
of his retreat he let it fall among the rocks, when a great 
stream gushed forth, which washed him away and swept him 
down precipices, where he was dashed to pieces, and the 
stream made its way to the Hudson, and continues to flow to 
the present day, being the identical stream known l)y the 
name of the Kaaterskill. 



58 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. 

Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant nation, rous- 
ing herself like a strong man after sleep, and shaking her in* 
vincible locks ; methinks I see her as an eagle, mewing her 
mighty youth, and kindling her endazzled eyes at the full 
mid-day beam. — Milton on the Liberty of the Press, 

It is v\dth feelings of deep regret tliat I observe 
tlie literary animosity daily growing up between 
England and America. Great curiosity has been 
awakened of late with respect to the United States, 
and the London press has teemed with volumes of 
travels through the Republic ; but they seem in- 
tended to diffuse error rather than knowledge ; and 
so successful have they been, that, notwithstanding 
the constant intercourse between the nations, there 
is no people concerning whom the great mass of the 
British public have less pure information, or enter- 
tain more numerous prejudices. 

English travellers are the best and the worst in 
the world. Where no motives of pride or interest 
intervene, none can equal them for profound and 
philosophical views of society, or faithful and 
graphical description of external objects ; but when 
either the interest or reputation of their own country 
comes in collision with that of another, they go 
to the opposite extreme, and forget their usual 
probity and candor, in the indulgence of splenetic 
remark, and an illiberal spirit of ridicule. 

Hence, their travels are more honest and accu- 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. 



59 



rate, the more remote the country described. I 
would place implicit confidence in an Englishman's 
description of the regions beyond the cataracts of 
the Nile ; of unknown islands in the Yellow Sea ; 
of the Ulterior of India ; or of any other tract 
which other travellers might be apt to picture out 
with the illusions of their iancies. But I would 
cautiously receive his account of his immediate 
neighbors, and of those nations with which he is in 
habits of most frequent intercourse. However I 
might be disposed to trust his probity, I dare not 
trust his prejudices. 

It has also been the peculiar lot of our country 
to be visited by the worst kind of English travellers. 
While men of philosophical spirit and cultivated 
minds have been sent from England to ransack the 
poles, to penetrate the deserts, and to study the 
manners and customs of barbarous nations, with 
which she can have no permanent intercourse of 
profit or pleasure ; it has been left to the broken- 
down tradesman, the scheming adventurer, the 
wandering mechanic, the Manchester and Birming- 
ham agent, to be her oracles respecting America. 
From such sources she is content to receive her in- 
formation respecting a country in a singular state 
of moral and physical development ; a country in 
which one of the greatest political experiments in 
the history of the world is now performing; and 
which presents the most profound and momentous 
studies to the statesman and the philosopher. 

That such men should give prejudicial accounts 
of America, is not a matter of surprise. The 
themes it offers for contemplation, are too vast and 
elevated for their capacities. The national charac- 



6o THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

ter is yet in a state of fermentation : it may have 
its frotliiness and sediment, but its ingredients are 
sound and wholesome ; it has already given proofs 
of powerful and generous qualities ; and the whole 
promises to settle down into something substantially 
excellent. But the causes which are operating to 
strengthen and ennoble it, and its daily indications 
of admirable properties, are all lost upon these pur- 
blind observers ; who are only affected by the little 
asperities incident to its present situation. They 
are capable of judging only of the surface of 
things ; of those matters which come in contact with 
their private interests and personal gratifications. 
They miss some of the snug conveniences and petty 
comforts which belong to an old, highly-finished, 
and over-populous state of society ; where the ranks 
of useful labor are crowded, and many earn a pain- 
ful and servile subsistence, by studying the very 
caprices of appetite and self-indulgence. These 
minor comforts, however, are all-important in the 
estimation of narrow minds ; which either do not 
perceive, or will not acknowledge, that they are 
more than counterbalanced among us, by great and 
generally diffused blessings. 

They may, perhaps, have been disappointed in 
some unreasonable expectation of sudden gain. 
They may have pictured America to themselves an 
El Dorado, where gold and silver abounded, and 
the natives were lacking in sagacity, and where 
they were to become strangely and suddenly rich, 
in some unforeseen but easy manner. The same 
weakness of mind that indulges absurd expecta- 
tions, produces petulance in disappointment. Such 
persons becom.e embittered against the countrv oc 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. 6 1 

finding that there, as everywhere else, a man must 
sow before he can reap ; must win wealth by indus- 
try and talent ; and must contend with the common 
difficulties of nature, and the shrewdness of an intel- 
ligent and enterprising people. 

Perhaps, through mistaken or ill-directed hos- 
pitality, .or from the prompt disposition to cheer and 
countenance the stranger, prevalent among my 
countrymen, they may have been treated with un- 
wonted respect in America ; and, having been ac- 
customed all their lives to consider themselves 
below the surface of good society, and brought up 
in a servile feeling of inferiority, they become arro- 
gant, on the common boon of civility ; they attribute 
to the lowliness of others their own elevation ; and 
underrate a society where there are no artificial 
distinctions, and where, by any chance, such indi- 
viduals as themselves can rise to consequence. 

One would suppose, however, that information 
coming from such sources, on a subject where the 
truth is so desirable, would be received with caution 
by the censors of the press ; that the motives of 
these men, their veracity, their opportunities of 
inquiry and observation, and their capacities for 
judging correctly, would be rigorously scrutinized, 
before their evidence was admitted, in such sweep- 
ing extent, against a kindred nation. The very 
reverse, however, is the case, and it furnishes a 
striking instance of human inconsistency. Nothing 
can surpass the vigilance with which English critics 
will examine the credibility of the traveller who 
publishes an account of some distant and compar- 
atively unimportant country. How warily will they 
compare the measurements of a pyramid, or the de- 



62 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

scription of a ruin ; and how sternly will they cen- 
sure any inaccuracy in these contributions of 
merely curious knowledge, while they will receive, 
with eagerness and unhesitating faith, the gross 
misrepresentations of coarse and obscure writers, 
concerning a country with which their own is 
placed in the most important and delicate rela- 
tions. Nay, they will even make these apocryphal 
volumes text-books, on which to enlarge, with a zeal 
and an ability worthy of a more generous cause. 

I shall not, however, dwell on this irksome and 
hackneyed topic ; nor should I have adverted to it, 
but for the undue interest apparently taken in it by 
my countrymen, and certain injurious effects which 
I apprehend it might produce upon the national 
feeling. We attach too much consequence to these 
attacks. They cannot do us any essential injury. 
The tissue of misrepresentations attempted to be 
woven round us, are like cobwebs woven round the 
limbs of an infant giant. Our country continually 
outgrows them. One falsehood after another falls 
off of itself. We have but to live on, and every day 
we live a whole volume of refutation. 

All the writers of England united, if we could for 
a moment suppose their great minds stooping to 
so unworthy a combination, could not conceal our 
rapidly growing importance and matchless prosper- 
ity. They could not conceal that these are owing, 
not merely to physical and local, but also to moral 
causes — to the political liberty, the general diffu- 
sion of knowledge, the prevalence of sound, moral, 
and religious principles, which give force and sus- 
tained energy to the character of a people, and 
which in fact, have been the acknowledged and 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. 63 

wonderful supporters of their own national power 
and glory. 

But why are we so exquisitely alive to the asper^ 
sions of England ? Why do we suffer ourselves to 
be so affected by the contumely she has endeavored 
to cast upon us ? It is not in the opinion of Eng- 
land alone that honor lives, and reputation has its 
being. The world at large is the arbiter of a 
nation's fame : with its thousand eyes it witnesses 
a nation's deeds, and from their collective testi- 
mony is national glory or national disgrace estab- 
lished. 

For ourselves, therefore, it is comparatively ot 
but little importance whether England does us jus- 
tice or not ; it is, perhaps, of far more importance 
to herself. She is instilling angef and resentment 
into the bosom of a youthful nation, to grow with 
its growth, and strengthen with its strength. If in 
America, as some of her writers are laboring to 
convince her, she is hereafter to find an invidious 
rival, and a gigantic foe, she may thank those very 
writers for having provoked rivalship, and irritated 
hostility. Every one knows the all-pervading influ- 
ence of literature at the present day, and how much 
the opinions and passions of mankind are under its 
control. The mere contests of the sword are tem- 
porary ; their wounds are but in the flesh, and it is 
the pride of the generous to forgive and forget 
them ; but the slanders of the pen pierce to the 
heart ; they rankle longest in the noblest spirits ; 
they dwell ever present in the mind, and render it 
morbidly sensitive to the most trifling collision. It 
is but seldom that any one overt act produces hos- 
tilities between two nations ; there exists, most 



64 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

commonly, a previous jealousy and ill-will, a pre- 
disposition to take Oi'^enco. Trace these to their 
cause, and how often will they be found to origi- 
nate in the mischievous effusions of mercenary 
writers, who, secure in their closets, and for igno- 
minious bread, concoct and circulate the venom that 
is to inflame the generous and the brave. 

I am not laying too much stress upon this point ; 
for it applies most emphatically to our particular 
case. Over no nation does the press hold a more 
absolute control than over the people of America ; 
for the universal education of the poorest classes 
makes every individual a reader. There is nothing 
published in England on the subject of our country, 
that does not circulate through every part of it. 
There is not a calumny dropt from an English pen, 
nor an unworthy sarcasm uttered by an English 
statesman, that does not go to blight good-will, and 
add to the mass of latent resentment. Possess- 
ing, then, as England does, the fountain-head 
whence the literature of the language flows, how 
completely is it in her power, and how truly is it 
her duty, to make it the medium of amiable and 
magnanimous feeling — a stream where the two 
nations might meet together and drink in peace 
and kindness. Should she, however, persist in 
turnuig it to waters of bitterness, the time may 
come when she may repent her folly. The present 
friendship of America may be of but little moment 
to her ; but the future destinies of that country do 
not admit of a doubt ; over those of England, there 
lower some shadows of uncertainty. Should, then, 
a day of gloom arrive — should those reverses over- 
take her, from which the proudest empires have 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. 65 

not been exempt — she may look back with regret 
at her infatuation, in repulsing from her side ag- 
nation she might have grappled to her bosom, and. 
ihus destroying her only chance for real friendship; 
beyond the boundaries of her own dominions. 

There is a general impression in England, that ^ 
the people of the United States are inimical to the 
parent country. It is one of the errors which have- 
been diligently propagated by designing writers.- 
There is, doubtless, considerable political hostility^ 
and a general soreness at the illiberality of the 
English press ; but, collectively speaking, the pre- 
possessions of the people are strongly in favor of 
England. Indeed, at one time they amounted, in 
many parts of the Union, to an absurd degree of 
biirotrv. The bare name of Enfrlishman was a 
passport to the confidence and hospitality of every 
family, and too often gave a transient currency to- 
the worthless and the ungrateful. Throughout the 
country, there was something of enthusiasm con- 
nected with the idea of England. We looked to it 
with a hallowed feeling of tenderness and venera- 
tion, as the land of our forefathers — the august 
repository of the monuments and antiquities of our 
race — the birthplace and mausoleum of the sages 
and heroes of our paternal history. After our own 
country, there was none in whose glory we more 
delighted — none whose good opinion we were more 
anxious to possess — none toward which our hearts 
yearned with such throbbings of warm consanguin- 
itv. Even during the late war, whenever there was 
the least opportunity for kind feelings to spring 
forth, it was the delight of the generous spirits of 
our country to show that, in the midst of hostii- 

5 



66 THE SKETCH-BOOR. 

ities, they still kept alive the sparks of future 
friendship. 

Is all this to be at an end ? Is this golden band of 
kindred sympathies, so rare between nations, to be 
broken forever ? — Perhaps it is for the best — it may 
•dispel an allusion which might have kept us in men- 
tal vassalage ; which might have interfered occa- 
sionally with our true interests, and prevented the 
growth of proper national pride. But it is hard to 
give up the kindred tie ! and there are feelings 
dearer than interest — closer to the heart than pride 
— that will still make us cast back a look of regret 
•as we wander farther and farther from the paternal 
■roof, and lament the waywardness of the parent 
^^that would repel the affections of the child. 

Short-sighted and injudicious, however, as the 
conduct of England may be in this system of asper- 
sion, recrimination on our part would be equally 
ill-judged. I speak not of a prompt and spirited 
vindication of our country, or the keenest castiga- 
tion of her slanderers — but I allude to a disposition 
to retaliate in kind, to retort sarcasm and inspire 
prejudice, which seems to be spreading widely 
among our writers. Let us guard particularly 
against such a temper ; for it would double the 
evil, instead of redressing the wrong. Nothing is 
so easy and inviting as the retort of abuse and sar- 
casm ; but it is a paltry and an unprofitable contest. 
It is the alternative of a morbid mind, fretted into 
petulance, rather than warmed into indignation. 
If England is willing to permit the mean jealousies 
of trade, or the rancorous animosities of politics, 
to deprave the integrity of her press, and poison 
the fountain of public opinion, let us beware of her 



EiXGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. 67 

example. She may deem it her interest to diffuse 
error, and engender antipathy, for the purpose of 
checking emigration : we have no purpose of the 
kind to serve. Neither have we any spirit of 
national jealousy to gratify ; for as yet, in all our 
rivalships with England, we are the rising and the 
gaining party. There can be no end to answer, 
therefore, but the gratification of resentment — • 
a mere spirit of retaliation — and even that is 
impotent. Our retorts are never republished in 
England ; they fall short, therefore, of their aim ; 
but they foster a querulous and peevish temper 
among our writers ; they sour the sweet flow of our 
early literature, and sow thorns and brambles among 
its blossoms. What is still worse, they circulate 
through our own country, and, as far as they have 
effect, excite virulent national prejudices. This 
last is the evil most especially to be deprecated. 
Governed, as we are, entirely by public opinion, 
the utmost care should be taken to preserve the 
purity of the public mind. Knowledge is power, 
and truth is knowledge ; whoever, therefore, know- 
ingly propagates a prejudice, wilfully saps the 
foundation of his country's strength. 

The members of a republic, above all other men, 
should be candid and dispassionate. They are, 
individually, portions of the sovereign mind and 
sovereign will, and should be enabled to come to 
all questions of national concern with calm and 
unbiassed judgments. From the peculiar nature 
of our relations with England, we must have more 
frequent questions of a difficult and delicate 
character with her, than with any other nation, — ■ 
questions that affect the most acute and excitable 



bo THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

feelings : and as, in the adjustment of these, out 
national measures must ultimately be determined 
by popular sentiment, we cannot be too anxiously 
attentive to purify it from all latent passion or 
prepossession. 

Opening, too, as we do, an asylum for strangers 
from every portion of the earth, we should receive 
all with impartiality. It should be our pride to 
exhibit an example of one nation, at least, destitute 
of national antipathies, and exercising, not merely 
the overt acts of hospitality, but those more rare 
and noble courtesies which spring from liberality 
of opinion. 

What have we to do with national prejudices ? 
They are the inveterate diseases of old countries, 
contracted in rude and ignorant ages, when nations 
knew but little of each other, and looked beyond 
their own boundaries with distrust and hostility. 
We, on this contrary, have sprung into national ex- 
istence in an enlightened and philosophic age, when 
the different parts of the habitable world, and the 
various branches of the human family, have been 
indefatigably studied and made known to each 
other ; and we forego the advantages of our birth, 
if we do not shake off the national prejudices, as 
we would the local superstitions, of the old world. 

But above all let us not be influenced by any 
angry feelings, so far as to shut our eyes to the 
perception of what is really excellent and amiable 
in the English character. We are a young people, 
necessarily an imitative one, and must take our 
examples and models, in a great degree, from the 
existing nations of Europe. There is no country 
more worthy of our study than England. The 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. 69 

spirit of her constitution is most analogous to ours. 
Tiie manners of her people — their intellectual 
activity — their freedom of opinion — their habits of 
thinking on those subjects which concern the 
dearest interests and most sacred charities o^ 
private life, are all congenial to the American 
ch:.racter ; and, in fact, are all intrinsically excel- 
leiu : fur it is in the moral feeling of the people 
that the deep foundations of British prosperity are 
laid : and however the superstructure may be time- 
worn, or overrun by abuses, there must be some- 
thing solid in the basis, admirable in the materials, 
and stable in the structure of an edifice that so 
long has towered unshaken amidst the tempests of 
the world. 

Let it be the pride cf our writers, therefore, dis- 
carding all feelings of irritation, and disdaining to 
retaliate the illiberality of British authors, to speak 
of the English nation without prejudice; and with 
determined cand' r. While they rebuke the indis- 
criminating bigotry with which some of our coun- 
trymen admire and imitate every thing English, 
merely because it is English, let them frankly point 
out what is really worthy of approbation. We may 
thus place England before us as a perpetual volume 
of reference, wherein are recorded sound deduc- 
tions from ages of experience; and while we avoid 
the errors and absurdities which may have crept 
into the page, we may draw thence golden maxims 
of practical wisdom, wherewith to strengthen and 
to embellish our national character. 



7c THE SKEICII-BOOK. 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 

Oh! friendly to the best pursuits of man, 
Friendly to thought, to virtue and to peace, 
Domestic life in rural pleasures past ! 

COWPER. 

The stranger \vho would form a correct opinion 
of the English character, must not confine his ob- 
servations to the metropolis. He must go forth 
into the country ; he must sojourn in villages and 
hamlets; he must visit castles, villas, farm-houses, 
cottages ; he must wander through parks and gar- 
dens ; along hedges and green lanes ; he must 
loiter about country churches ; attend wakes and 
fairs, and other rural festivals ; and cope with the 
people in all their conditions, and all their habits 
and humors. 

In some countries, the large cities absorb the 
wealth and fashion of the nation ; they are the only 
fixed abodes of elegant and intelligent society, and 
the country is inhabited almost entirely by boorish 
peasantry. In England, on the contrary, the 
metropolis is a mere gathering-place, or general 
rendezvous, of the polite classes, where they de- 
vote a small portion of the year to a hurry of 
gayety and dissipation, and, having indulged this 
kind of carnival, return again to the apparently 
more congenial habits of rural life. The various 
orders of society are therefore diffused over the 
whole surface of the kingdom, and the more re- 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 71 

tired neighborhoods afford specimens of the 
different ranks. 

The English, in fact, are strongly gifted with 
the rural feeling. They possess a quick sensibil- 
ity to the beauties of nature, and a keen relish 
for the pleasures and employments of the coun- 
try. This passion seems inherent in them. Even 
the inhabitants of cities, born and brought up 
among brick walls and bustling streets, enter with 
facility into rural habits, and evince a tact for 
rural occupation. The merchant has his snug 
retreat in the vicinity of the metropolis, where 
he often displays as much pride and zeal in 
the cultivation of his flower garden, and the 
maturing of his fruits, as he does in the conduct 
of his business, and the success of a commer- 
cial enterprise. Even those less fortunate indi- 
viduals, who are doomed to pass their lives in 
the midst of din and traffic, contrive to have 
something that shall remind them of the green 
aspect of nature. In the most dark and dingy 
quarters of the city, the drawing-room window 
resembles frequently a bank of flowers; every 
spot capable of vegetation has its grass-plot and 
flower-bed; and every square its mimic park. 

Those who see the Englishman only in town, 
are apt to form an unfavorable opinion of his 
social character. He is either absorbed in 
business, or distracted by the thousand engage- 
ments that dissipate time, thought, and feeling, 
in this huge metropolis. He has, there- 
fore, too commonly, a look of hurry and 
abstraction. Wherever he happens to be, 
he is on th^ Dornt of going somewhere 



72 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

else; at the moment he is talking on one subject, 
his mind is wandering to another ; and while pay- 
ing a friendly visit, he is calculating how he shall 
economize time so as to pay the other visits allotted 
to the morning. An immense metropolis, like Lon- 
don, is calculated to make men selfish and unin- 
teresting. In their casual and transient meetings^ 
they can but deal briefly in commonplaces. They 
present but the cold superfices of character — its 
rich and genial qualities have no time to be warmed 
into a flow. 

It is in the country that the Englishman gives 
scope to his natural feelings. He breaks loose 
gladly from the cold formalities and negative civili- 
ties of town ; throws off his- habits of shy reserve, 
and becomes joyous and free-hearted. He man- 
ages to collect round him all the conveniences and 
elegancies of polite life, and to banish its restraints. 
His country-seat abounds with every requisite, 
either for studious retirement, tasteful gratification, 
or rural exercise. Books, paintings, music, horses, 
dogs, and sporting implements of all kinds, are at 
hand. He puts no constraint, either uoon his 
guests or himself, but, in the true spirit of hospi- 
tality, provides the means of enjoyment, and leaves 
every one to partake. according to his inclination. 

The taste of the English in the cultivation of hind, 
and in what is called landscape gardening, is un- 
rivalled. They have studied Nature intently, and 
discovered an exquisite sense of her beautiful forms 
and harmonious combinations. Those charms 
which, in other countries, she lavishes in wild soli- 
tudes, are here assembled round the haunts of 
domestic life. They seem to have caugiit her coy 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 73 

and furtive graces, and spread them, like witchery, 
about their rural abodes. 

Nothing can be more imposing than the magnifi- 
cence of English park scenery. Vast lawns that 
extend like sheets of vivid green, with here and there 
clumps of gigantic trees, heaping up rich piles of 
foliage. The solemn pomp of groves and wood- 
land glades, with the deer trooping in silent herds 
across them ; the hare, bounding away to the cov- 
ert ; or the pheasant, suddenly bursting upon the 
wing. The brook, taught to wind in natural mean- 
derings, or expand into a glassy lake — the seques- 
tered pool, reflecting the quivering trees, with the 
yellow leaf sleeping on its bosom, and the trout 
roaming fearlessly about its lii/ipid waters ; while 
some rustic temple, or sylvan statue, grown green 
and datik with age, gives an air of classic sanctity 
to the seclusion. 

These are but a few of the features of park 
scenery ; but what most delights me, is the creative 
talent with which the English decorate the unosten- 
tatious abodes of middle life. The rudest habita- 
tion, the most unpromising and scanty portion of 
land, in the hands of an Englishman of taste, be- 
comes a little paradise. With a nicely discriminat- 
ing eye, he seizes at once upon its capabilities, and 
pictures in his mind the future landscape. The 
sterile spot grows into loveliness under his hand ; 
and yet the operations of art which produce the 
effect are scarcely to be perceived. The cherish- 
ing and training of some trees ; the cautious prun- 
ing of others ; the nice distribution of flowers and 
plants of tender and graceful foliage ; the introduc- 
tion of a green slope of velvet turf ; the partial open- 



74 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

ing to a peep of blue distance, or silver gleam of 
water ; — all these are managed with a delicate tact, 
a pervading yet quiet assiduity, like the magic touch- 
ings with which a painter finishes up a favorite 
picture. 

The residence of people of fortune and refine- 
ment in the country, has diffused a degree of taste 
and elegance in rural economy that descends to the 
lowest class. The very laborer, with his thatched 
cottage and narrow slip of ground, attends to their 
embellishment. The trim hedge, the grass-plot be- 
fore the door, the little flower-bed bordered with 
snug box, the woodbine trained up against the wall, 
and hanging its blossoms about the lattice ; the pot 
of flowers in the window ; the holly, providently 
planted about the house, to cheat winter of its dreari* 
ness, and to throw in a semblance of green summer 
to cheer the fireside ; all these bespeak the influ- 
ence of taste, flowing down from high sources, and 
pervading the lowest levels of the public mind. If 
ever Love, as poets sing, delights to visit a cottage, 
it must be the cottage of an English peasant. 

The fondness for rural life among the higher 
classes of the English has had a great and salutary 
effect upon the national character. I do not know 
a finer race of men than the English gentlemen. 
Instead of the softness and effeminacy which char- 
acterize the men of rank in most countries, they ex- 
hibit a union of elegance and strength, a robust- 
ness of frame and freshness of coiriplexion, which 
I am inclined to attribute to their living so much 
in the open air, and pursuing so eagerly the invigo- 
rating recreations of the country. The hardy exer- 
cises produce also a healthful tone of mind and 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 75 

spirits, and a manliness and simplicity of manners, 
which even the follies and dissipations of the town 
cannot easily pervert, and can never entirely de- 
stroy. In the country, too, the different orders of 
society seem to approach more freely, to be more 
disposed to blend and operate favorably upon each 
other. 'J'he distinctions between them do not ap- 
pear to be so marked and impassable as in the 
cities. The manner in which property has been 
distributed into small estates and farms has estab- 
lished a regular gradation from the noblemen, 
through the classes of gentry, small landed proprie- 
tors, and su])stantial farmers, down to the laboring 
peasantry ; and while it has thus banded the ex- 
tremes of society together, has infused into each 
intermediate rank a spirit of independence. This, 
it must be confessed, is not so universally the case 
at present as it was formerly ; the larger estates 
having, in late years of distress, absorbed the 
smaller, and, in some parts of the country, almost 
annihilated the sturdy race of small farmers. These, 
however, I believe, are but casual breaks in the 
general system I have mentioned. 

In rural occupation, there is nothing mean and 
debasing. It leads a man forth among- scenes of 
natural grandeur and beauty; it leaves him to the 
workings of his own mind, operated upon by the 
purest and most elevating of external influences. 
Such a man may be simple and rough, but he can- 
not be vulgar. The man of refinement, therefore, 
finds nothing revolting in an intercourse with the 
lower orders in rural life, as he does when he 
casually mingles with the lower orders of cities. 
He lays aside his distance and reserve, and is glad 



►7 6 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

to waive the distinctions of rank, and to enter into 
tlie honest, heartfelt enjoyments of common life. 
Indeed, the very amusements of the country bring 
men more and more together ; and the sound of 
hound and horn blend all feelings into harmony. 
I believe this is one great reason why the nobility 
and gentry are more popular among the inferior 
orders in England than they are in any other 
country; and why the latter have endured so many 
excessive pressures and extremities, without repin- 
ing more generally at the unequal distribution of 
fortune and privilege. 

To this mingling of cultivated and rustic society 
may also be attributed the rural feeling that runs 
through British literature ; the frequent use of illus- 
trations from rural life ; those incomparable de- 
scriptions of Nature, that abound in the British 
poets — that have continued down from " The Flower 
and the Leaf," of Chaucer, and have brought into 
our closets all the freshness and fragrance of the 
dewy landscape. The pastoral writers of other 
countries appear as if they had paid Nature an oc- 
casional visit, and become acquainted w^ith her 
general charms ; but the British poets have lived 
and revelled with her — they have wooed her in her 
most secret haunts — they have watched her mi- 
nutest caprices. A spray could not tremble in the 
breeze — a leaf could not rustle to the ground — a 
diamond drop could not patter in the stream — a 
fragrance could not exhale from the humble violet, 
nor a daisy unfold its crimson tints to the morning, 
but it has been noticed by these impassioned and 
delicate observers, and wrought up into some beau- 
tiful morality. 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 77 

The effect of this devotion of elegant minds to 
rural occupations has been wondertul on the face 
of the country. A great part of the island is rather 
level, and would be monotonous, were it not for 
the charms of culture ; but it is studded and 
gemmed, as it were, with castles and palaces, and 
embroidered with parks and gardens. It does not 
abound in grand and sublime prospects, but rather 
in little home scenes of rural repose and sheltered 
quiet. Every antique farm-house and moss-grown 
cottage is a picture ; and as the roads are continually 
winding, and the view is shut in by groves and 
hedges, the eye is delighted by a continual succes- 
sion of small landscapes of captivating loveliness. 

The great charm, however, of English scenery, 
is the moral feeling that seems to pervade it. It 
is associated in the mind with ideas of order, of 
quiet, of sober well-established principles, of hoary 
usage and reverend custom. Every thing seems to 
be the growth of ages of regular and peaceful ex- 
istence. The old church of remote architecture, 
with its low, massive portal ; its Gothic tower ; its 
windows rich with tracery and painted glass, in 
scrupulous preservation ; its stately monuments of 
warriors and worthies of the olden time, ancestors 
of the present lords of the soil ; its tombstones, re- 
cording successive generations of sturdy yeomanry 
whose progeny still plough the same fields, and 
kneel at the same altar ; — the parsonage, a quaint 
irregular pile, partly antiquated, but repaired and 
altered in the tastes of various ages and occupants ; 
— the stile and foot-path leading from the church- 
yard, across pleasant fields, and along shady hedge- 
rows, according to an immemorial right of way ; 



78 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

■ — the neighboring village, with its venerable cot- 
tages, its public green sheltered by trees, under 
which the forefathers of the present race have 
sported ;— the antique family mansion, standing 
apart in some little rural domain, but looking down 
with a protecting air on the surrounding scene ; — 
all these common features of English landscape 
evince a calm and settled security, a hereditary 
transmission of homebred virtues and local attach- 
ments, that speak deeply and touchingly for the 
moral character of the nation. 

It is a pleasing sight, of a Sunday morning, when 
the bell is sending its sober melody across the 
quiet fields, to behold the peasantry in their best 
finery, with ruddy faces, and modest cheerfulness, 
thronging tranquilly along the green lanes to 
church ; but it is still more pleasing to see them 
in the evenings, gathering about their cottage 
doors, and appearing to exult in the humble com- 
forts and embellishments which their own hands 
have spread around them. 

It is this sweet home-feeling, this settled repose 
of affection in the domestic scene, that is, after all, 
the parent of the steadiest virtues and purest en- 
joyments ; and I cannot close these desultory re- 
marks better, than by quoting the words of a modern 
English poet, who has depicted it with remarkable 
felicity : 

Through each gradation, from the castled hall, 

The city dome, the villa crowned with shade, 

But chief from modest mansions numberless. 

In town or hamlet, shelt'ring middle life, 

Down to the cottaged vale, and straw-roof'd shed ; 

This western isle has long been famed for scenes 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 79 

Where bliss domestic finds a dwelling-place ; 

Domestic bliss, that, like a. harmless dove, 

(Honor and sweet endearment keeping guard,) 

Can centre in a little quiet nest 

All that desire would fly for through the earth ; 

That can, the world eluding, be itself 

A world enjoyed; that wants no witnesses 

But its own sharers, and approving Heaven ; 

That, like a flower deep hid in rocky cleft. 

Smiles, though 't is looking only at the sky. 



• * 



* From a poem on the death of the Princess Charlotte, bj 
the Reverend Rann Kennedy, A.M. 



So THE SKETCU-BOOK- 



THE BROKEN HEART. 

I never heard 
Of any true affection, but 't was nipt 
With care, that, like the caterpillar, eats 
The leaves of the spring's sweetest book, the rose. 

MiDDLETON. 

It is a common practice with those who have 
oiithved the susceptibihty of early feehng, or have 
been brought up in the gay heartlessness of dis- 
sipated hfe, to laugh at all love stories, and to treat 
the tales of romantic passion as mere fictions of 
novelists and poets. My observations on human 
nature have induced me to think otherwise. They 
have convinced me that, however the surface of 
the character may be chilled and frozen by the 
cares of the world, or cultivated into mere smiles 
by the arts of society, still there are dormant fires 
lurking in the depths of the coldest bosom, which, 
v/hen once enkindled, become impetuous, and are 
sometimes desolating in their effects. Indeed, I 
am a true believer in the blind deity, and go to the 
full extent of his doctrines. Shall I confess it i^ — • 
I believe in broken hearts, and the possibility of 
dying of disappointed love ! I do not, however, 
consider it a malady often fatal to my own sex ; 
but I firmly believe that it withers down many a 
lovely woman into an early grave. 

Man is the creature of interest and ambition. 
His nature leads him forth into the struggle and 



THE BR OKEN HE A RT. 8 1 

bustle of the world. Love is but the embellish- 
ment of his early life, or a song piped in the inter- 
vals of the acts. He seeks for fame, for fortune, 
for space in the world's thought, and dominion 
over his fellow-men. But a woman's whole life is 
a history of the affections. The heart is her world ; 
it is there her ambition strives for empire — it is 
there her avarice seeks for hidden treasures. She 
sends forth her sympathies on adventure ; she em- 
barks her whole soul in the traffic of affection ; and 
if shipwrecked, her case is hopeless — for it is a 
bankruptcy of the heart. 

To a man, the disappointment of love may occa- 
sion some bitter pangs ; it wounds some feelings 
of tenderness — it blasts some prospects of felicity ; 
but he is an active being — he may dissipate his 
thoughts in the whirl of varied occupation, or may 
plunge into the tide of pleasure ; or, if the scene of 
disappointment be too full of painful associations, 
he can shift his abode at will, and taking, as it 
were, the wings of the morning, can " fly to the 
uttermost parts of the earth, and be at rest." 

But woman's is comparatively a fixed, a se- 
cluded, and meditative life. She is more the 
companion of her own thoughts and feelings ; and 
if they are turned to ministers of sorrow, where 
shall she look for consolation ? Her lot is to be 
wooed and won ; and if unhappy in her love, her 
heart is like some fortress that has been captured, 
and sacked, and abandoned, and left desolate. 

How many bright eyes grow dim — how many 

soft cheeks grow pale — how many lovely forms 

fade away into the tomb, and none can tell the 

cause that blighted their loveliness ! As the dove 

6 



82 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

will clasp its wings to its side, and cover and conceal 
the arrow that is preying on its vitals — so is it the 
nature of woman, to hide from the world the pangs 
of wounded affection. The love of a delicate 
female is always shy and silent. Even when fort- 
unate, she scarcely breathes it to herself ; but 
when otherwise, she buries it in the recesses of her 
bosom, and there lets it cower and brood among 
the ruins of her peace. With her, the desire of 
her heart has failed — the great charm of existence 
is at an end. She neglects all the cheerful exer- 
cises which gladden the spirits, quicken the pulses, 
and send the tide of life in healthful currents 
through the veins. Her rest is broken — the sweet 
refreshment of sleep is poisoned by melancholy 
dreams — "dry sorrow drinks her blood," until her en- 
feebled frame sinks under the slightest external in- 
jury. Look for her, after a little while, and you find 
friendship weeping over her untimely grave, and 
wondering that one, who but lately glowed with all 
the radiance of health and beauty, should so speed- 
ily be brought down to " darkness and the worm." 
You will be told of some wintry chill, soitie casual 
indisposition, that laid her low ; — but no one knows 
of the mental malady which previously sapped her 
strength, and made her so easy a prey to the 
spoiler. 

She is like some tender tree, the pride and 
beauty of the grove ; graceful in its form, bright in 
its foliage, but with the worm preying at its heart. 
We find it suddenly withering, when it should be 
most fresh and luxuriant. We see it drooping its 
branches to the earth, and shedding leaf by leaf, 
until, wasted and perished away, it falls even in the 



THE BROKEN HEART. 83 

Stillness of the forest ; and as we muse over the 
beautiful ruin, we strive in vain to recollect the 
blast or thunderbolt that could have smitten it with 
decay. 

I have seen many instances of women running to 
waste and self-neglect, and disappearing gradually 
from the earth, almost as if they had been exhaled 
to heaven ; and have repeatedly fancied that I 
could trace their deaths through the various declen- 
sions of consumption, cold, debility, languor, mel- 
ancholy, until I reached the first symptom of disap- 
pointed love. But an instance of the kind was 
lately told to me ; the circumstances are well known 
in the country where they happened, and I shall 
but give them in the manner in which they were 
related. 

Every one must recollect the tragical story of 

young E , the Irish patriot ; it was too touching 

to be soon forgotten. During the troubles in 
Ireland, he was tried, condemned, and executed, on 
a charge of treason. His fate made a deep impres- 
sion on public sympathy. He was so young — so 
intelligent — so generous — so brave — so everything 
that we are apt to like in a young man. His con- 
duct under trial, too, was so lofty and intrepid. 
The noble indignation with which he repelled the 
charge of treason against his country — the eloquent 
vindication of his name — and his pathetic appeal 
to posterity, in the hopeless hour of condemnation, 
— all these entered deeply into every generous 
bosom, and even his enemies lamented the stern 
policy that dictated his execution. 

But there was one heart whose anguish it would 
be impossible to describe In happier days and 



S4 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

fairer fortunes, he had won the affections of a 
beautiful and interesting girl, the daughter of a 
late celebrated Irish barrister. She loved liim with 
the disinterested fervor of a woman's hrst and early 
love. When every worldly maxim arrayed itself 
against him ; when blasted in fortune, and disgrace 
and danger darkened around his name, she loved 
him the more ardently for his very sufferings. If, 
then, his fate could awaken the sympathy even of 
his foes, what must have been the agony of her, 
whose w^hole soul was occupied by his image ? Let 
those tell who have had the portals of the tomb 
suddenly closed between them and the being they 
most loved on earth — who have sat at its thresh- 
old, as one shut out in a cold and lonely world, 
whence all that was most lovely and loving had 
departed. 

But then the horrors of such a grave ! — ^so fright- 
ful, so dishonored ! There was nothing for memory 
to dwell on that could soothe the pang of separation 
— none of those tender, though melancholy circum- 
stances which endear the parting scene — nothing to 
melt sorrow into those blessed tears, sent like the 
dews of heaven, to revive the heart in the parting 
hour of anguish. 

To render her widowed situation more desolate, 
she had incurred her father's displeasure by her 
unfortunate attachment, and was an exile from the 
parental roof. But could the sympathy and kind 
offices of friends have reached a spirit so shocked 
and driven in by horror, she would have experi- 
enced no want of consolation, for the Irish are a 
people of quick and generous sensibilities. The 
most delicate and cherishing attentions were paid 



THE BROKEN HEART. 85 

her by families of wealth and distinction. She 
was led into society, and they tried by all kinds of 
occupation and amusement to dissipate her grief, 
and wean her from the tragical story of her loves. 
But it was all in vain. There are some strokes of 
calamity that scathe and scorch the soul — which 
penetrate to the vital seat of happiness — and blast 
it, never again to put forth bud or blossom. She 
never objected to frequent the haunts of pleasure, 
but was as much alone there as in the depths 
of solitude ; walking about in a sad revery, ap- 
parently unconscious of the world around her. 
She carried with her an inward woe that mocked 
at all the blandishments of friendship, and " heeded 
not the song of the charmer, charm he never so 
wisely." 

The person who told me her story had seen her 
at a masquerade. There can be no exhibition of 
far-gone wretchedness more striking and painful 
than to meet it in such a scene. To find it wander- 
ing like a spectre, lonely and joyless, where all 
around is gay — to see it dressed out in the trap- 
pings of mirth, and looking so wan and woe-begone, 
as if it had tried in vain to cheat the poor heart 
into momentary forgetfulness of sorrow. After 
strolling through the splendid rooms and giddy 
crowd with an air of utter abstraction, she sat her- 
self down on the steps of an orchestra, and, look- 
ing about for some time with a vacant air, that 
showed her insensibility to the garish scene, she 
began, with the capriciousness of a sickly heart, to 
warble a little plaintive air. She had an exquisite 
voice ; but on this occasion it was so simple, 
so touching, it breathed forth such a soul 



86 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

of wretchedness — that she drew a crowd, mute 
and silent, around her and melted every one into 
tears. 

The story of one so true and tender could not 
but excite great interest in a country remarkable 
for enthusiasm. It completely won the heart of a 
brave officer, who paid his addresses to her, and 
thought that one so true to the dead, could not but 
prove affectionate to the living. She declined his 
attentions, for her thoughts were irrevocably en- 
grossed by the memory of her former lover. He, 
however, persisted in his suit. He solicited not her 
tenderness, but her esteem. He was assisted by 
her conviction of his worth, and her sense of her 
own destitute and dependent situation, for she was 
existing on the kindness of friends. In a word, he 
at length succeeded in gaining her hand, though 
with the solemn assurance, that her heart was un- 
alterably another's. 

He took her with him to Sicily, hoping that a 
change of scene might wear out the remembrance 
of early woes. She was an amiable and exemplary 
wife, and made an effort to be a happy one ; but 
nothing could cure the silent and devouring melan- 
choly that had entered into her very soul. She 
wasted away in a slow, but hopeless decline, and 
at length sunk into the grave, the victim of a broken 
heart. 

It was on her that Moore, the distinguished Irish 
poet, composed the following lines : 

She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, 

A:5d lovers around her are sighing : 
|- t coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, 

^or her heart in his grave is lying. 



THE BROKEN HEART. 8 J 

She sings the wild song of her dear native plains, 

Every note Avhich he loved awaking — 
Ah ! little they think, who delight in her strains, 

How the heart of the minstrel is breaking ! 

He had lived for his love — for his country he died, 
They were all that to life had entwined him — 

Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried. 
Nor long will his love stay behind him ! 

Oh ! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest. 
When they promise a glorious morrow ; 

They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west. 
From her own loved island of sorrow ! 



88 THE SKE7CII-B00K. 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING. 

If that severe doom of Synesius be true, — " It is a greater 
offence to steal dead men's lalDor, than their clothes," — what 
shall become of most writers ? 

Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy. 

I HAVE often wondered at the extreme fecundity 
of the press, and how it comes to pass that so many- 
heads, on which Nature seems to have inflicted the 
curse of barrenness, should teem with voluminous 
productions. As a man travels on, however, in the 
journey of life, his objects of wonder daily diminish, 
and he is continually finding out some very simple 
cause for some great matter of marvel. Thus have 
I chanced, in my peregrinations about this great 
metropolis, to blunder upon a scene which unfolded 
to me some of the mysteries of the book-making 
craft, and at once put an end to my astonishment. 

I was one summer's day loitering through the 
great saloons of the British Museum, with that list- 
lessness with which one is apt to saunter about a 
museum in warm weather ; sometimes lolling over 
the glass cases of minerals, sometimes studying the 
hieroglyphics on an Egyptian mummy, and some- 
times trying, with nearly equal success, to compre- 
hend the allegorical paintings on the lofty ceilings. 
Whilst I was gazing about in this idle way, my at- 
tention was attracted to a distant door, at the end 
of a suite of apartments. It was closed, but everv 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING. 89 

now and then it would open, and some strange- 
favored being, generally clothed in black, would 
steal forth, and glide through the rooms, without 
noticing any of the surrounding objects. There 
was an air of mystery about this that piqued my 
languid curiosity, and I determined to attempt the 
passage of that strait, and to explore the un- 
known regions beyond. The door yielded to my 
hand, with all that facility with which the portals 
of enchanted castles yield to the adventurous 
knight-errant. I found myself in a spacious cham- 
ber, surrounded with great cases of venerable books. 
Above the cases, and just under the cornice, were 
arranged a great number of black-looking portraits 
of ancient authors. About the room were placed 
long tables, with stands for reading and writing, at 
which sat many pale, studious personages, por- 
ing intently over dusty volumes, rummaging among 
mouldy manuscripts, and taking copious notes 
of their contents. A hushed stillness reigned 
through this mysterious apartment, excepting that 
you might hear the racing of pens over sheets of 
paper, and occasionally the deep sigh of one of these 
sages, as he shifted his position to turn over the 
page of an old folio ; doubtless arising from that 
hoUowness and flatulency incident to learned re- 
search. 

Now and then one of these personages would 
write something on a small slip of paper, and ring 
a bell, whereupon a familiar would appear, take the 
paper in profound silence, glide out of the room, 
and return shortly loaded with ponderous tomes, 
upon which the other would fall, tooth and nail, 
with famished voracity, I had no longer a doubt 



90 



THE SKE TCII-B O OK\ 



that I had happened upon a body of magi, deeply 
engaged in the study of occult sciences. The scene 
reminded me of an old Arabian tale, of a phil- 
osopher shut up in an enchanted library, in 
the bosom of a mountain, which opened only 
once a year ; where he made the spirits of the 
place bring him books of all kinds of dark 
knowledge, so that at the end of the year, when 
the magic portal once more swung open on its 
hinges, he issued forth so versed in forbidden 
lore, as to be able to soar above the heads of the 
multitude, and to control the powers of Nature. 

My curiosity being now fully aroused, I whis- 
pered to one of the familiars, as he was about to 
leave the room, and begged an interpretation of the 
strange scene before me. A few words were suffi- 
cient for the purpose. I found that these myste- 
rious personages, whom I had mistaken for magi, 
were principally authors, and were in the very act 
of manufacturing books. I was, in fact, in the 
reading-room of the great British Library, an im- 
mense collection of volumes of all ages and lan- 
guages, many of which are now forgotten, and most 
of which are seldom read : one of these sequest- 
ered pools of obsolete literature to wdiich modern 
authors repair, and draw buckets full of classic 
lore, or " pure English, undefiled," wherewith to 
swell their own scanty rills of thought. 

Being now in possession of the secret, I sat down 

in a corner, and watched the process of this book 

manufactory. I noticed one lean, bilious-looking 

wno^ht, who sought none but the most worm-eaten 

• 1 1 
volumes, printed in black letter. He was evidently 

constructing some work of profound erudition, that 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKIiYG. 91 

would be purchased by every man who wished to 
be thought learned, placed upon a conspicuous 
shelf of his library, or laid open upon his table — 
but never read. I observed him, now and then, 
draw a large fragment of biscuit out of his pocket, 
and gnaw ; whether it was his dinner, or whether 
he was endeavoring to keep off that exhaustion of 
the stomach, produced by much pondering over dry 
works, I leave to harder students than mvself to 
determine. 

There was one dapper little gentleman in bright- 
colored clothes, with a chirping gossiping expres- 
sion of countenance, who had all the appearance 
of an author on good terms with his bookseller. 
After considering him attentively, I recognized in 
him a diligent getter-up of miscellaneous works, 
which bustled off well with the trade. I was curious 
to see how he manufactured his wares. He made 
more stir and show of business than any of the 
others ; dipping into various books, fluttering over 
the leaves of manuscripts, taking a morsel out of 
one, a morsel out of another, " line upon line, pre- 
cept upon precept, here a little and there a little." 
The contents of his book seemed to be as hetero- 
geneous as those of the witches' cauldron in Mac- 
beth. It was here a finger and there a thumb, toe 
of frog and blind worm's sting, with his own gossip 
poured in like "baboon's blood," to make the 
nfedlev " slab and g:ood." 

After all, thought I, may not this pilfering dis- 
position be implanted in authors for wise purposes ? 
may it not be the way in which Providence has 
taken care that the seeds of knowledge and wisdom 
shall be preserved from age to age, in spite of the 



92 



THE SKETCH-BOOK, 



inevitable decay of the works in which they were 
first produced ? We see that Nature has wisely, 
though whimsically provided for the conveyance af 
seeds from clime to clime, in the maws of certain 
birds ; so that animals, which, in themselves, are 
little better than carrion, and apparently the lawless 
plunderers of the orchard and the corn-field, are, in 
fact. Nature's carriers to disperse and perpetuate her 
blessings. In like manner, the beauties and fine 
thoughts of ancient and obsolete authors are caught 
up by these flights of predatory writers, and cast 
forth, again to flourish and bear fruit in a remote 
and distant tract of time. Many of their works, 
also, undergo a kind of metempsychosis, and spring 
up under new forms. What was formerly a pon- 
derous history, revives in the shape of a romance — 
an old legend changes into a modern play — and a 
sober philosophical treatise furnishes' the body for a 
whole series of bouncing and sparkling essays. 
Thus it is in the clearing of our American wood- 
lands ; where we burn down a forest of stately 
pines, a progeny of dwarf oaks start up in their 
place ; and we never see the prostrate trunk of a 
tree mouldering into soil, but it gives birth to a 
whole tribe of fungi. 

Let us not then, lament over the decay and 
oblivion into which ancient writers descend ; they 
do but submit to the great law of Nature, which 
declares that all sublunary shapes of matter shall be 
limited in their duration, but which decrees, also, 
that their element shall never perish. Generation 
after generation, both in animal and vegetable life, 
passes away, but the vital principle is transmitted 
to posterity, and the species continue to flourish. 



THE A NT OF BOOK-MAKIXG. 95 

Thus, also, do authors beget authors, and havhig 
produced a numerous progeny, in a good old age 
they sleep with their fathers, that is to say, with the 
authors who preceded them — arid from whom they 
had stolen. 

Whilst I was indulging in these rambling fancies 
I had leaned my head against a pile of reverend 
folios. Whether it was owing to the soporific 
emanations for these works ; or to the profound 
quiet of the room ; or to the lassitude arising from 
much wandering; or to an- unlucky habit of nap- 
ping at improper times and places, with which 1 am 
grievously afflicted, so it was, that I fell into a doze. 
Still, however, my imagination continued busy, and 
indeed the s:ime scene continued before my mind's 
eye, only a little changed in some of the details. 
I dreamt that the chamber was still decorated with 
the portraits of ancient authors, but that the number 
was increased. The long tables had disappeared, 
and, in place of the sage magi, I beheld a ragged, 
threadbare throng, such as may be seen plying 
about the great repository of cast-off clothes, 
Monmouth Street. Whenever they seized upon a 
book, by one of those incongruities common to 
dreams, methought it turned into a garment of 
foreign or antique fashion, with which they pro- 
ceeded to equip themselves. I noticed, however, 
that no one pretended to clothe himself from any 
particular suit, but took a sleeve from one, a cape 
from another, a skirt from a third, thus decking him- 
self out piecemeal, while some of his original rags 
would peep out from among his borrowed finery. 

There was a portly, rosy, well-fed parson, whom 
I observed ogling several mouldy polemical writers 



94 THE SKRTCH-BOOK. 

through an eyeglass. He soon contrived to slip 
on the voluminous mantle of one of the old fathers, 
and having purloined the gray beard of another, 
endeavored to look exceedingly wise ; but the smirk- 
ing commonplace of his countenance set at naught 
all the trappings of wisdom. One sickly-lookijig 
gentleman was busied embroidering a very flimsy 
garment with gold thread drawn out of several old 
court-dresses of the reign of Queen Elizabeth. 
Another had trimmed himself magnificently from 
an illuminated manuscript, had stuck a nosegay in 
his bosom, culled from '' The Paradise of Dainty 
Devices," and having put Sir Philip Sidney's hat 
on one side of his head, strutted off with an 
exquisite air of vulgar elegance. A third, who was 
but of puny dimensions, had bolstered himself out 
bravely with the spoils from several obscure tracts 
of philosophy, so that he had a very imposing front, 
but he \vas lamentably tattered in rear, and I per- 
ceived that he had patched his small-clothes with 
scraps of parchment from a Latin author. 

There were some well-dressed gentlemen, it is 
true, who onl}' helped themselves to a gem or so, 
which sparkled among their own ornaments, without 
eclipsing them. Some, too, seemed to contemplate 
the costumes of the old writers, merely to imbibe 
their principles of taste, and to catch their air and 
spirit ; but I grieve to say, that too many were apt 
to array themselves, from top to toe, in the patch- 
work manner I have mentioned. I shall not omit 
to speak of one genius, in drab breeches and gaiters, 
and an Arcadian hat, who had a violent propensity 
to the pastoral, but whose rural wanderings had 
been confined to the classic haunts of Primrosft 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING. 



95 



Hill, and the solitudes of the Regent's Park. He 
had decked himself in wreaths and ribbons from 
all the old pastoral poets, and, hanging his hencl on 
one side, went about with a fantastical, lack-a- 
daisical air, " babbling about green fields." But 
the personage that most struck my attention wis 
a pragmatical old gentleman in clerical robes, wiih 
a remarkably large and square but bald head, lie 
entered the room wheezing and puffing, elbowed 
his way through the throng with a look of sturdy 
self-confidence, and, having laid hands upon a thick 
Greek quarto, clapped it upon his head, and swept 
majestically away in a formidable frizzled wig. 

In the height of this literary masquerade, a cry 
suddenly resounded from every side, of "■ Thieves ! 
thieves ! " I looked, and lo ! the portraits about 
the walls became animated ! The old authors 
thrust out, first a head, then a shoulder, from the 
canvas, looked down curiously for an instant upon 
the motley throng, and then descended, with fury 
in their eyes, to claim their rifled property. The 
scene of scampering and hubbub that ensued baffles 
all description. The unhappy culprits endeavored 
in vain to escape with thefr plunder. On one side 
might be seen half a dozen old monks, stripping a 
modern professor ; on another, there was sad 
devastation carried into the ranks of modern dra- 
matic writers. Beaumont and Fletcher, side by 
side, raged round the field like Castor and Pollux, 
and sturdy Ben Jonson enacted more wonders than 
when a volunteer with the army in Flanders. As to 
the dapper little compiler of farragos mentioned 
some time since, he had arrayed himself in as many 
patches and colors as harlequin, and there was as 



96 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 



fierce a contention of claimants about him, as 
about the dead body of Patroclus. I was grieved to 
see many men, to wliom I had been accustomed to 
look up with awe and reverence, fain to steal off 
with scarce a rag to cover their nakedness. Just 
then my eye was caught by the pragmatical old 
gentleman in the Greek grizzled wig, who was 
scrambling away in sore affright with half a score 
of authors in full cry after him. They were close 
upon his haunches ; in a twinkling off went his wig; 
at every turn some strip of raiment was peeled away, 
until in a few moments, from his domineering 
pomp, he shrunk into a little, pursy, " chopp'd bald 
shot," and made his exit with only a few tags and 
rags fluttering at his back. 

There was something so ludicrous in the catas- 
trophe of this learned Theban that I burst into an 
immoderate fit of laughter, which broke the whole 
illusion. The tumult and the scuffle were at an 
€nd. The chamber resumed its usual appearance. 
The old authors shrunk back into their picture- 
frames, and hung in shadowy solemnity along the 
walls. In short, I found myself wide awake in my 
corner, with the whole assemblage of bookworms 
gazing at me with astonishment. Nothing of the 
dream had been real but my burst of laughter, a 
sound never before heard in that grave sanctuary, 
and so abhorrent to the ears of wisdom, as to elec- 
trify the fraternity. 

The librarian now stepped up to me, and de- 
manded whether I had a card of admission. At 
first I did not comprehend him, but I soon found 
that the library was a kind of literary " preserve," 
subject to game-laws, and that no one must pre- 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING. 



9?' 



sume to hunt there without special license and 
permission. In a word, I stood convicted of being 
an arrant poacher, and was glad to make a pre- 
cipitate retreat, lest I should hav:; a whole pack of 
authors let loose upon me. 

7 



98 THE SKETCH-BOOK^ 



A ROYAL POET. 

Though your body ];e confined 

And soft love a prisoner bound, 
Yet the beauty of your mind 

Neither check nor chain hath found. 
Look out nobly, then, and dare 
Even the fetters that you wear. 

Fletcher. 

On a soft sunny morning in the genial month of 
May I made an excursion to Windsor Castle. It 
is a place full of storied and poetical associations. 
The very external aspect of the proud old pile is 
enough to inspire high thought. It rears its irreg- 
ular walls and massive towers, like a mural crown 
around the brow of a lofty ridge, waves its royal 
banner in the clouds, and looks down with a lordly 
air upon the surrounding world. 

On this morning, the weather was of that volupt- 
uous vernal kind which calls forth all the latent 
romance of a man's temperament, filling his mind 
with music, and disposing him to quote poetry and 
dream of beauty. In wandering through the mag- 
nificent saloons and long echoing galleries of the 
castle I passed with indifference by whole rows of 
portraits of warriors and statesmen, but lingered 
in the chamber where hang the likenesses of the 
beauties which graced the gay court of Charles the 
Second ; and as I gazed upon them, depicted with 
amorous, half-dishevelled tresses, and the sleepy 
eye of love, I blessed the pencil of Sir Peter Lely, 



A ROYAL POET. 



99 



which had thus enabled me to bask in the reflected 
rays of beauty. In traversing also the " large green 
courts," with sunshine beaming on the gray walls 
and glancing along the velvet turf, my mind was 
engrossed with the image of the tender, the gallant, 
but hapless Surrey, and his account of his loiter- 
ings about them in his stripling days, when en- 
amoured of the Lady Geraldine — 

" With eyes cast up unto the maiden's tower, 
With easie sighs, such as men draw in love." 

In this mood of mere poetical susceptibility, I visited 
the ancient keep of the castle, where James the 
First of Scotland, the pride and theme of Scottish 
poets and historians, was for many years of his 
youth detained a prisoner of state. It is a large 
gray tower, that has stood the brunt of ages, and is 
still in good preservation. It stands on a mound 
which elevates it above the other parts of the castle, 
and a great flight of steps leads to the interior. In 
the armory, a Gothic hall furnished with weapons 
of various kinds and ages, I was shown a coat of 
armor hanging against the wall, which had once 
belonged to James. Hence I was conducted up a 
staircase to a suite of apartments, of faded magnifi- 
cence, hung with storied tapestry, which formed his 
prison, and the scene of that passionate and fanci- 
ful amour, which has woven into the web of his 
story the magical hues of poetry and fiction. 

The whole history of this amiable but unfortunate 
prince is highly romantic. At the tender age of 
eleven, he was sent from home by his father, 
Robert III., and destined for the French court, to 
be reared under the eye of the French monarch, 



lOO THE SA'ETCII-BOOK. 

secure from the treachery and dan^c^er that sur- 
rounded the royal house of Scotland. It was his 
mishap, in the course of his voyage, to fall into the 
hands of the English, and he was detained pris- 
oner by Henry IV., notwithstanding that a truce 
existed between the two countries. 

The intelligence of his capture, coming in the 
train of many sorrows and disasters, proved fatal 
to his unhappy father. " The news," we are told, 
" was brought to him while at supper, and did so 
overwhelm him with grief that he was almost ready 
to give up the ghost into the hands of the servants 
that attended him. But being carried to his bed- 
chamber, he abstained from all food, and in three 
days died of hunger and grief at Rothesay." * 

James was detained in captivity above eighteen 
years ; but, though deprived of personal liberty, he 
was treated with the respect due to his rank. Care 
was taken to instruct him in all the branches of 
useful knowledge cultivated at that period, and to 
give him those mental and personal accomplish- 
ments deemed proper for a prince. Perhaps in this 
respect his imprisonment was an advantage, as it 
enabled him to apply himself the more exclusively 
to his improvement, and quietly to imbibe that rich 
fund of knowledge and to cherish those elegant 
tastes which have given such a lustre to his mem- 
ory. The picture drawn of him in early life by the 
Scottish historians is highly captivating, and seems 
rather the description of a hero of romance than of 
a character in real history. He was well learnt, we 
are told, " to fight with the sword, to joust, to tour- 
ney, to wrestle, to sing and dance ; he was an expert 

* Buchanan. 



A KOYAL PORT. loi 

mediciner, right crafty in playing both of lute and 
harp, and sundry other instruments of music, and 
was expert in grammar, oratory, and poetry." * 

With this combination of manly and delicate ac- 
complishments, fitting him to shine both in active and 
elegant life, and calculated to give him an intense 
relish for joyous existence, it must have been a 
severe trial, in an age of bustle and chivalry, to pass 
the spring-time of his years in monotonous captivity. 
It was the good fortune of James, however, to be 
gifted with a powerful poetic fancy, and to be 
visited in his prison by the choicest inspirations of 
the muse. Some minds corrode, and grow inactive, 
under the loss of personal liberty; others grow 
morbid and irritable ; but it is the nature of the poet 
to become tender and imaginative in the loneliness 
of confinement. He banquets upon the honey of 
his own thoughts, and, like the captive bird, pours 
forth his soul in melody. 

Have you not seen the nightingale, 

A pilgrim coop'd into a cage, 
How doth slie chant her wonted tale, 
In that her lonely hermitage ! 
Even there her charming melody doth prove 
That all lier boughs are trees, her cage a grove.t 

Indeed, it is the divine attribute of the imagina- 
tion, that it is irrepressible, unconfinable — that when 
the real world is shut out, it can create a world for 
tself, and, with a necromantic power, can conjure up 
glorious shapes and forms and brilliant visions, to 
make solitude populous, and irradiate the gloom of 

*Ballenden's translation of Hector Boyce. 
t Roger L' Estrange. 



102 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

the dungeon. Such was the world of pomp and 
pageant that hved round Tasso in his dismal cell 
at Ferrara, when he conceived the splendid scenes 
of his Jerusalem ; and we may consider The King's 
Quair, * composed by James during his captivity 
at Windsor, as another of those beautiful breakings 
forth of the soul from the restraint and gloom of 
the prison-house. 

The subject of the poem is his love for the lady 
Jane Beaufort, daughter of the Earl of Somerset, 
and a princess of the blood-royal of England, of 
whom he became enamoured in the course of his 
captivity. What gives it a peculiar value, is, that it 
may be considered a transcript of the royal bard's 
true feelings, and the story of his real loves and 
fortunes. It is not often that sovereigns write 
poetry or that poets deal in fact. It is gratifying 
to the pride of a common man, to tind a monarch 
thus suing, as it were, for admission into his closet, 
and seeking to win his favor by administering to 
his pleasures. It is a proof of the honest equality 
of intellectual competition, which strips off all the 
trappings of factitious dignity, brings the candidate 
down to a level with his fellow-men, and obliges 
him to depend on his own native powers for distinc- 
tion. It is curious, too, to get at the history of a 
monarch's heart, and to find the simple affections 
of human nature throbbing under the ermine. But 
James had learnt to be a poet before he was a king ; 
he was schooled in adversity, and reared in the 
company of his own thoughts. Monarchs have 
seldom time to parley with their hearts or to medi- 

* Quair, an old term for book. 



A ROYAL POET. 



103 



tate their minds into poetry; and had James been 
brought up amidst the adulation and gayety of a 
court, we should never, in all probability, have had 
such a poem as the Quair. 

I have been particularly interested by those parts 
of the poem which breathe his immediate thoughts 
concerning his situation, or which are connected 
with the apartment in the Tower. They have thus 
a personal and local charm, and are given with such 
circumstantial truth as to make the reader present 
with the captive in his prison and the companion 
of his meditations. 

Such is the account which he gives of his weari- 
ness of spirit, and of the incident which first sug- 
gested the idea of writing the poem. It was the 
still mid-watch of a clear moonlight night ; the stars, 
he says, were twinkling as fire in the high vault 
of heaven, and " Cynthia rinsing her golden locks 
in Aquarius " He lay in bed wakeful and restless, 
and took a book to beguile the tedious hours. The 
book he chose was Boetius' Co7isolations of Philos- 
ophy, a work popular among the writers of that 
day, and which had been translated by his great 
prototype, Chaucer. From the high eulogium in 
which he indulges, it is evident this was one of his 
favorite volumes while in prison ; and indeed it is 
an admirable text-book for meditation under adver- 
sity. It is the legacy of a noble and enduring 
spirit, purified by sorrow and suffering, bequeathing 
to its successors in calamity the maxims of sweet 
morality, and the trains of eloquent but simple 
reasoning, by which it was enabled to bear up 
against the various ills of life. It is a talisman, 
which the unfortunate may treasure up in his bosom, 



I04 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

or, like the good King James, lay upon his nightly 
pillow. 

After closing the volume he turns its contents 
over in his mind, and gradually falls into a fit of 
musing on the fickleness of fortune, the vicissi- 
tudes of his own life, and the evils that had over- 
taken him even in his tender youth. Suddenly he 
hears the bell ringing to matins, but its sound, chim- 
ing in with his melancholy fancies, seems to him 
like a voice exhorting him to write his story. In 
the spirit of poetic errantry he determines to com- 
ply with this intimation ; he therefore takes pen in 
hand, makes with it a sign of the cross to implore 
a benediction, and sallies forth into the fairy-land 
of poetry. There is something extremely fanciful 
in all this, and it is interesting as 'furnishing a 
striking and beautiful instance of the simple manner 
in which whole trains of poetical thought are some- 
times awakened and literary enterprises suggested 
to the mind. 

In the course of his poem, he more than once 
bewails the peculiar hardness of his fate, thus 
doomed to lonely and inactive life, and shut up 
from the freedom and pleasure of the world in 
which the meanest animal indul2:es unrestrained. 
There is a sweetness, however, in his very com- 
plaints ; they are the lamentations of an amiable 
and social spirit at being denied the indulgence of 
its kind and generous propensities ; there is nothing 
in them harsh nor exaggerated ; they flow with a 
natural and touching pathos, and are perhaps ren- 
dered more touching by their simple brevity. They 
contrast finely with those elaborate and iterated 
repinings which we sometimes meet with in poetry. 



A A- OVAL POET. 



105 



the effusions of morbid minds sickening under 
miseries of their own creatine:, and ventins: their 
bitterness upon an unoftending world. James 
speaks of his privations with acute sensil3iHtv, but 
having mentioned them passes on, as if his manly 
mind disdained to brood over unavoidable calam- 
ities. When such a spirit breaks forth into com- 
plaint, however brief, we are aware how great must 
be the suffering that extorts the murmur. We 
sympathize with James, a romantic, active, and 
accomplished prince, cut off in the lustihood of 
youth from all the enterprise, the noble uses, and 
vigorous delights of life, as we do with ^lilton, alive 
to all the beauties of nature and glories of art, when 
he breathes forth brief but deep-toned lamentations 
over his perpetual blindness. 

Had not James evinced a deficiency of poetic 
artifice, we might almost have suspected that these 
lowerings of gloomy reflection were meant as pre- 
parative to the brightest scene of his story, and to 
contrast with that refulgence of light and loveli- 
ness, that exhilarating accompaniment of bird and 
song, and foliage and flower, and all the revel of 
the year, with which he ushers in the lady of his 
heart. It is this scene, in particular, which throws 
all the magic of romance about the old castle keep. 
He had risen, he says, at daybreak, according to 
custom, to escape from the dreary meditations of a 
sleepless pillow. " Bewailing in his chamber thus 
alone," despairing of all joy and remedy, "for, 
tired of thought, and woe-begone," he had wandered 
to the window to indulge the captive's miserable 
solace, of gazing wistfully upon the world from 
which he is excluded. The window looked forth 



Io6 THE skktch-bgoa: 

upon a small garden which hiy at the foot of tlie 
tower. It was a quiet, sheltered spot, adorned 
with arbors and green alleys, and protected from 
the passing gaze by trees and hawthorn hedges. 

Xow was there made fast l)y the tower's wall, 
A garden faire, and in the corners set 

An arbour green with wandis long and small 
Railed al)out, and so with leaves beset 

Was all the place and hawthorn hedges knet, 
That lyf * was none, walkyng there forbye 
That might within scarce any wight espye. 

So thick the branches and the leves grene, 
Beshaded all the alleys that theare were, 

And midst of every arbour might be seen, 
The sharpe, grene, swete juniper, 

Growing so fair with branches here and there, 
That as it seemed to a lyf without, 
The boughs did spread the arbour all about. 

And on the small grene twistis t set 

The lytel swete nightingales, and sung 

So loud and clear, the hymnis consecrate 
Of lovis use, now soft, now loud among, 

That all the garden and the wallis rung 

Right of their song 

It was the month of May, when every thing was 
in bloom, and he interprets the song of the nightin- 
gale into the language of his enamoured feeling : 

Worship, all ye that lovers be, this May; 

For of your bliss the kalends are begun, 
And sing with us, Away, winter, away. 

Come, summer, come, the sweet season and sun. 

As he gazes on the scene, and listens to the notes 

* Lyf, person. t Twistis, small boughs or twigs. 

KoTE. — The language of the quotations is generally mod 
ernized. 



A ROYAL POET. 107 

of the birds, he gradually relapses into one of those 
tender and undefinable reveries, which fill the 
youthful bosom in this delicious season. He won- 
ders what this love may be of which he has so often 
read, and which thus seems breathed forth in the 
quickening breath of May, and melting all nature 
into ecstasy and song. If it really be so great a 
felicity, and if it be a boon thus generally dispensed 
to the most insignificant beings, why is he alone 
cut off from its enjoyments 1 

Oft would I think, O Lord, what may this be, 

That love is of such noble myght and kynde .'' 

Loving his folke, and such prosperitee, 
Ls it of liim, as we in books do find ; 
May he oure hertes setten * and unbynd : 

Llath he upon oure hertes such maistrye ? 

Or is all this but feynit fantasye ? 

For giff he be of so grete excellence 

That he of every wight hath care and charge, 

\Vhat have I gilt t to him, or done offense, 
That I am thral'd, and birdis go at large .'' 

In the midst of his musing, as he casts his eye 
downward, he beholds " the fairest and the freshest 
voung floure " that ever he had seen. It is the lovely 
Lady Jane, walking in the garden to enjoy the 
beauty of that " fresh May morrowe." Breaking 
thus suddenly upon his sight in a moment of loneli- 
ness and excited susceptibility, she at once capti- 
vates the fancy of the romantic prince, and becomes 
the object of his wandering wishes, the sovereign 
of his ideal world. 

There is, in this charming scene, an evident re- 

* Setten, incline. 

t Gilt, what inj ury have I done, etc. 



Io8 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

semblance to the early part of Chaucer's Knight's 
Tale, where Palamon and Arcite fall in love with 
Emilia, whom they see walking in the garden of 
their prison. Perhaps the similarity of the act- 
ual fact to the incident which he had read in 
Chaucer may have induced James to dwell on it in 
his poem. His description of the Lady Jane is 
given in the picturesque and minute manner of his 
master, and, being doubtless taken from the life, 
is a perfect portrait of a beauty of that day. He 
dwells with the fondness of a lover on every article 
of her apparel, from the net of pearl, splendent 
with emeralds and sapphires, that confined her 
golden hair, even to the " goodly chaine of small 
orfeverye " * about her neck, whereby there hung 
a ruby in shape of a heart, that seemed, he says, 
like a spark of fire burning upon her white bosom. 
Her dress of white tissue was looped up to enable 
her to walk with more freedom. She was accom- 
panied by two female attendants, and about her 
sported a little hound decorated with bells, prob- 
ably the small Italian hound of exquisite symmetry 
which was a parlor favorite and pet among the 
fashionable dames of ancient times. James closes 
his description by a burst of general eulogium : 

In her was youth, beauty, with humble port, 
Bounty, richesse, and womanly feature : 

God better knows than my pen can report, 

Wisdom, largesse,! estate, % and cunning § sure. 

In every point so guided her measure. 

In word, in deed, in shape, in countenance, 
That nature might no more her child advance. 

* Wrought gold, t Largesse, bounty. 

% Estate, dignity. § dmning, discretion. 



A ROYAL POET. 109 

The departure of the Lady Jane from the garden 
puts an end to this transient riot of the heart. 
With her departs the amorous illusion that hid 
shed a temporary charm over the scene of his 
captivity, and he relapses into loneliness, now ren- 
dered te'nfold more intolerable by this passing beam 
of unattainable beauty. Through the long and 
weary day he repines at his unhappy lot, and when 
evening approaches, and Phcebus, as he beautifully 
expresses it, had "bade farewell to every leaf and 
flower," he still lingers at the window, and, laying 
his head upon the cold stone, gives vent to a min- 
gled flow of love and sorrow, until, gradually lulled 
by the mute melancholy of the twilight hour, he 
lapses, "half-sleeping, half swoon," into a vision, 
• which occupies the remainder of the poem, and in 
which is allegorically shadowed out the history of 
his passion. 

When he wakes from his trance, he rises from 
his stony pillow, and, pacing his apartment, full of 
dreary reflections, questions his spirit, whither it 
has been wandering ; whether, indeed, all that has 
passed before his dreaming fancy has been con- 
jured up by preceding circumstances, or whether it 
is a vision intended to comfort and assure him in 
his despondency. If the latter, he prays that some 
token may be sent to confirm the promise of happier 
days, given him in his slumbers. Suddenly, a turtle- 
dove of the purest whiteness comes flying in at the 
window, and alights upon his hand, bearing in her 
bill a bi inch of red gilliflower, on the leaves of 
which is written, in letters of gold, the following 
sentence : 



no THE SKF.TCn-BOOK. 

Awake ! awake ! I bring, lover, I luring 

The newis glad, that blissful is and sure 

Of thy comfort; now laugh, and play, and sing, 
For in the heaven decretit is thy cure. 

He receives the branch with mingled hope and 
dread ; reads it with rapture ; and this he says was 
the first token of his succeeding happiness. Whether 
this is a mere poetic fiction, or whether the Lady 
Jane did actually send him a token of her favor in 
this romantic way, remains to be determined ac- 
cording to the fate or fancy of the reader. He 
concludes his poem by intimating that the prom- 
ise conveyed in the vision and by the flower, is 
fulfilled by his being restored to liberty, and made 
happy in the possession of the sovereign of his 
heart. 

Such is the poetical account given by James of 
his love adventures in \\'indsor Castle. How much 
of it is absolute fact, and how much the embellish- 
ment of fancy, it is fruitless to conjecture ; let us 
not, however, reject every romantic incident as 
incompatible with real life, but let us sometimes 
take a poet at his word. I have noticed merely 
those parts of the poem immediately connected 
with the tower, and have passed over a large 
part which was in the allegorical vein, so much cul- 
tivated at that day. The language, of course, is 
quaint and antiquated, so that the beauty of many 
of its golden phrases wall scarcely be perceived at 
the present day, but it is impossible not to be 
charmed with the genuine sentiment, the delightful 
artlessness and urbanity, which prevail throughout 
it. The descriptions of Nature too, with which it 
is embellished, are given with a truth, a discrimina- 



A ROYAL POET. in 

tion, and a freshness, worthy of the most cuhivated 
periods of the art. 

As an amatory poem, it is edifying, in these days 
of coarser thinking, to notice tlie nature, refinement, 
and exquisite deHcacy which pervade it ; banishing 
every gross thought, or immodest expression, and 
presenting female loveliness, clothed in all its chiv- 
alrous attributes of almost supernatural purity and 
grace. 

James flourished nearly about the time of Chaucer 
and Gower, and was evidently an admirer and 
studier of their writings. Indeed, in one of his 
stanzas he acknowledges them as his masters ; and 
in some parts of his poem we find traces of similarity 
to their productions, more especially to those of 
Chaucer, There are always, however, general feat- 
ures of resemblance in the works of contemporary 
authors, which are not so much borrowed from each 
other as from the times. Writers, like bees, toll 
their sweets in the wide world ; they incorporate 
with their own conceptions, the anecdotes and 
thoughts current in society ; and thus each genera- 
tion has some features in common, characteristic 
of the age in which it lives. 

James belongs to one of the most brilliant eras 
of our literary history, and establishes the claims 
of his country to a participation in its primitive 
honors. Whilst a small cluster of English writers 
are constantly cited as the fathers of our verse, the 
name of their great Scottish compeer is apt to be 
passed over in silence ; but he is evidently worthy 
of being enrolled in that little constellation of 
remote but never-failing luminaries who shine in 
the highest firmament of literature, and who, like 



I i 2 THE SKE TCH-BO OA. 

morning stars, sang together at the bright dawning 
of British poesy. 

Such of my readers as may not be familiar Avith 
Scottish history (though the manner in which it lias 
of late been woven with captivating fiction has 
made it a universal study), may be curious to learn 
something of the subsequent history of James and 
the fortunes of his love. His passion for the Lady 
Jane, as it was the solace of his captivity, so it 
facilitated his release, it being imagined by the 
Court that a connection with the blood-royab of 
England would attach him to its own interests. He 
was ultimately restored to his liberty and crown, hav- 
ing previously espoused the Lady Jane, who ac- 
companied him to Scotland, and made him a most 
tender and devoted wife. 

He found his kingdom in great confusion, the feudal 
chieftains having taken advantage of the troubles 
and irregulari:' :: of a long interregnum, to strength- 
en themselves in their possessions, and place them- 
selves above the power of the laws. James sought to 
found the basis of his power in the affections of his 
people. He attached the lower orders to him by the 
reformation of abuses, the temperate and equable 
administration of justice, the encouragement of the 
arts of peace, and the promotion of every thing that 
could diffuse comfort, competency, and innocent 
enjoyment through the humblest ranks of society. 
He mingled occasionally among the common peo- 
ple in disguise ; visited their firesides ; entered into 
their cares, their pursuits, and their amusements; 
informed himself of the mechanical arts, and how 
they could best be patronized and improved ; and 
was thus an all-pervading spirit, watching with a 



A ROYAL POET. 113 

benevolent eye over the meanest of his subjects. 
Having in this generous manner made himselt 
strong in the hearts of the common people, he 
turned himself to curb the power of the factious 
nobility ; to strip them of those dangerous immu- 
nities which they had usurped ; to punish such as 
had been guilty of flagrant offences ; and to bring 
the whole into proper obedience to the Crown. For 
some time they bore this with outward submission, 
but with secret impatience and brooding resent- 
ment. A conspirac}* was at length formed against 
his life, at the head of which was his own uncle, 
Robert Stewart, Earl of Athol, who, being too old 
himself for the perpetration of the deed of blood, 
instigated his grandson. Sir Robert Stewart, together 
with Sir Robert Graham, and others of less note, to 
commit the deed. They broke into his bedchamber 
at the Dominican convent near Perth, where he was 
residing, and barbarously murdered him by oft- 
repeated wounds. His faithful queen, rushing to 
throw her tender body between him and the sword, 
was twice wounded in the ineffectual attempt to 
shield him from the assassin ; and it was not until 
she iiid been forcibly torn from his person, that 
the murder was accomplished. 

It was the recollection of this romantic tale of 
former times, and of the golden little poem, which 
had its birthplace in this tower, that made me visit 
the old pile with more than common interest. 'J'he 
suit of armor hanging up in the hall, richly gilt and 
embellished, as if to figure in the tourney, brought 
the image of the gallant and romantic prince vividly 
before my imagination. I paced the deserted 
chambers where he had composed hi^ poem ; 1 



5 14 THE SKETC/I-BOOK. 

leaned upon the window, and endeavored to per- 
suade myself it was t )e very one where he had been 
visited by his vision ; I looked out upon the spot 
where he had first seen the Lady Jane. It was the 
same genial and joyous niontli ; the birds were again 
vying with e^ch olher in strains of liquid melody; 
every thing was bursting into vegetation, nnd bud- 
ding forth the tender promise of the year. Time, 
which delights to obliterate the sterner memorials 
of human pride, seems to have passed lightly over 
this little scene of poetry and love, and to have with- 
held his desolating hand. Several centuries have 
gone by, yet the garden still flourishes at the foot 
of the tower. It occupies what was once the moat 
of the keep ; and, though some parts have been sep- 
arated by dividing walls, yet others have still their 
arbors and shaded walks, as in the days of James, 
and the whole is sheltered, blooming, and retired. 
There is a charm about the spot that has been 
printed by the footsteps of departed beauty, and 
consecrated by the inspirations of the poet, which 
is heightened, rather than impaired, by the lapse of 
ages. It is, indeed, the gift of poetry, to hallov\> 
every place in which it moves ; to breathe around 
nature an odor more exquisite than the perfume of 
the rose, and to shed over it a tint more magical 
than the blush of morning. 

Others may dwell on the illustrious deeds of 
James as a warrior and a legislator ; but I have de- 
lighted to view him merely as the companion of his 
fellow-men, the benefactor of the human heart, 
stooping from his high estate to sow the sweet 
flowers of poetry and song in the paths of common 
life. He was the first to cultivate the vigorous and 



A RLWAL POET. 



"5 



V«?rdy plant of Scottish genius, which has since be- 
come so prolific of the most wholesome and highly 
flavored fruit. He carried with him into the sterner 
regions of the north, all the fertilizing arts of south- 
ern refinement. He did every thing in his power to 
win his countrymen to the gay, the elegant, and 
gentle arts, which soften and refine the character of 
a people, and wreathe a grace round the loftiness 
of a proud and warlike spirit. He wrote many 
]x>ems, which, unfortunately for the fulness of his 
fame, are now lost to the world ; cae, which is still 
preserved, called " Christ's Kirk of the Green," 
shows how diligently he had made himself ac- 
quainted with the rustic sports and pastimes, which 
constitute such a source of kind and social feelins: 
among the Scottish peasantry ; and with what sim.ple 
and happy humor he could enter into their enjoy- 
ments. He contributed greatly to improve the 
national music ; and traces of his tender sentiment 
and elegant taste are said to exist in those witching 
airs, still piped among the wild mountains and 
lonely glens of Scotland. He has thus connected 
his image with whatever is most gracious and en- 
dearing in the national character ; he has embalmed 
his memory in song, and floated his name to 
after-ages in the rich streams of Scottish melody. 
The recollection of these things was kindling at my 
heart, as I paced the silent scene of his imprison- 
ment. I have visited Vaucluse with as much en- 
thusiasfn as a pilgrim would visit the shrine at Lo- 
retto ; but I have never felt more poetical devotion 
than when contemplating the old tower and the 
little garden at Windsor, and musing over the ro- 
mantic loves of the Lady Jane, and the Royal Poet 
fo Scotland. 



r 1 6 THE SKE TCH-B O OK, 



THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 

A gentleman ! 
What o' the woolpack ? or the sugar-chest ? 
Or lists of velvet ? which is 't, pound, or yard, 
You vend your gentry by ? 

Beggar's Busit. 

There are few places more favorable to the study 
of character than an English country church. I 
was once passing a few weeks at the seat of a friend 
who resided in the vicinity of one the appearance 
of which particularly struck my fancy. It was one 
of those rich morsels of quaint antiquity, which 
gives such a peculiar charm to English landscape. 
It stood in the midst of a country filled with ancient 
families, and contained within its cold and silent 
aisles the congregated dust of many noble genera- 
tions. The interior walls were encrusted with monu- 
ments of every age and style. The light streamed 
through windows dimmed with armorial bearings, 
richly emblazoned in stained glass. In various 
parts of the church were tombs of knights, and high- 
born dames, of gorgeous workmanship, with their 
effigies in colored marble. On every side, the eye 
was struck with some instance of aspiring mortality, 
some haughty memorial which human pride had 
erected over its kindred dust in this temple of the 
most humble of all religions. 

The congregation was composed of the neighbor- 
ing people of rank, who sat in pews sumptuously 



TrTE CO UNTR Y CHURCH. 1 1 7 

lined ^tnd cushioned, furnished with richly-gilded 
prayer-books, and decorated with their arms upon 
the pew doors ; of the villagers and peasantry, who 
filled the back seats and a small gallery beside the 
organ ; and of the poor of the parish, who were 
ranged on benches in the aisles. 

The service was performed by a snuffling, well- 
fed vicar, who had a snug dwelling near the church. 
He was a privileged guest at ail the tables of the 
neighborhood, and had been the keenest fox-hunter 
in the country, until age and good living had dis- 
abled him from doing anything more than lide to 
see the hounds throw off, and make one at the hui.\t 
ing dinner. 

Under the ministry of such a pastor, I found it 
impossible to get into the train of thought suitable 
to the time and place ; so, having, like many other 
feeble Christians, compromised with my conscience, 
by laying the sin of my own delinquency at another 
person's threshold, I occupied myself by making 
observations on my neighbors. 

I was as yet a stranger in England, and curious 
to notice the manners of its fashionable classes. I 
found, as usual, that there was the least pretension 
where there was the most acknowledged title to re- 
spect. I w^as particularly struck, for instance, with 
the family of a nobleman of high rank, consisting 
of several sons and daughters. Nothing could be 
more simple and unassuming than their appearance. 
They generally came to church in the plainest 
equipage, and often on foot. The young ladie-s 
would stop and converse in the kindest manner 
with the peasantry, caress the children, and listen 
to the stories of the humble cottagers. Their coun- 



1 1 8 THE SKE TCH-B O OK. 

tenances were open and beautifully fair, with an ex- 
pression of high refinement, but at the same time 
a frank . cheerfulness and engaging affability. 
Their brothers were tall, and elegantly formed. 
They were dressed fashionably, but simply — with 
strict neatness and propriety, but without any man- 
nerism or foppishness. Their whole demeanor was 
easy and natural, with that lofty grace and noble 
frankness which bespeak free-born souls that have 
never been checked in their growth by feelings of 
inferiority. There is a healthful hardiness about 
real dignity, that never dreads contact and com- 
munion with others, however humble. It is only 
spurious pride that is morbid and sensitive, and 
shrinks from every touch. I was pleased to see 
the manner in which they would converse with the 
peasantry about those rural concerns and field- 
sports in which the gentlemen of the country so 
much delio-ht. In these conversations there was 
neither haughtiness on the one part, nor servility 
on the other, and you were only renainded of the 
difference of rank by the habitual respect of the 
peasant. 

l\\ contrast to these was the family of a wealthy 
citizen, who had amassed a vast fortune, and, hav- 
ing purchased the estate and mansion of a ruined 
nobleman in the neighborhood, was endeavoring to 
assume all the style and dignity of an hereditary lord 
of the soil. The family always came to church en 
prince. They were rolled majestically along in a 
carriage emblazoned with arms. The crest glittered 
in silver radiance from every part of the harness 
where a crest could possibly be placed. A tat 
€oachman, in a three-cornered hat richly laced arid 



THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 119 

a flaxen wig, curling close round his rosy face, 
was seated ow the box, with a sleek Danish dog 
beside him. Two footmen in gorgeous liveries, 
with huge bouquets, and gold-headed canes, lolled 
behind. The carriage rose and sunk on its long 
springs with a peculiar stateliness of motion. The 
very horses champed their bits, arched their necks, 
and glanced their eyes more proudly than common 
horses ; either because they had caught a little of 
die family feeling, or were reined up more tightly 
than ordinary. 

I could not but admire the style with which this 
splendid pageant was brought up to the gate of the 
churchyard. There was a vast effect produced at 
the turning of an angle of the wall — a great smack- 
ing of the whip, straining and scrambling of the 
horses, glistening of harness, and flashing of 
wheels through gravel. This was the moment of 
triumph and vainglory to the coachman. The 
horses were urged and checked, until they were 
fretted into a foam. They threw out their feet in 
a. prancing trot, dashing about pebbles at every 
step. The crowd of villagers sauntering quietly to 
church opened precipitately to the right and left, 
gaping in vacant admiration. On reaching the gate, 
the horses were pulled up with a suddenness that 
produced an immediate stop, and almost threw them 
on their haunches. 

There was an extraordinary hurry of the footmen 
to alight, pull down the steps, and prepare every- 
thing for the descent on earth of this august 
family. The old citizen first emerged his round 
red face from out the door, looking about him 
with the pompous air of a man accustomed to 



120 THE SKETCH-IWOK. 

rule on 'Change, and shake the Stock Market with a 
nod. His consort, a one. fleshy, comfortable dame, 
followed him. There seemed, I must confess, but 
little pride in her composition. She was the picture 
of broad, honest, vulgar enjoyment. The world 
went well with her; and she liked the world. She 
had fine clothes, a hne house, a line carriage, tine 
children — everything was fine about her : it was 
nothing but driving about and visiting and feasting. 
Life was to her a perpetual revel : it was one long 
Lord Mayor's Day. 

Two daughters succeeded to this goodly couple. 
Thev certain Iv were handsome, but had a super- 
cilious air that chilled adniration and disposed 
the spectator to be critical. They were ultra- 
fashionable in dress, and, though no one could 
deny the richness of their decorations, yet their 
appropriateness might be questioned amidst the 
simplicity of a country church. They descended 
loftily from the carriage, and moved up the line of 
peasantry with a step that seemed dainty of the 
soil it trod on. Thev cast an excursive s^lance 
around, that passed coldly over the burly faces of 
the peasantry, until they met the eyes of the noble- 
man's familv, when their countenances immediately 
brightened into smiles, and they made the most 
profound and elegant courtesies, which were re- 
turned in a manner that showed they were but slight 
acquaintances. 

I must not forget the two sons of this inspiring 
citizen, who came to church in a dashing curricle 
with outriders. They were arrayed in the extremity 
of the mode, with all that pedantry of dress which 
marks the man of questionable pretensions to style. 



THE COUXTRY CHURCH. 12 1 

They kept entirely by themseh^es, eying every one 
askance that came near them, as if measuring his 
claims to respectability ; yet they were without 
conversation, except the exchange of an occasional 
cant phrase. They even moved artihcially, for their 
bodies, in compliani e with the caprice of the day, 
had been disciplined into the absence of all ease 
and freedom. Art had done everything to accom- 
plish them as men of fashion, but Nature had de- 
nied them the nameless grace. They were vulgarly 
shaped, like men formed for the common purposes 
of life, and h*ad that air of supercilious assump- 
tion which is never seen in the true gentleman. 

I have been rather minute in drawing the 
pictures of these two families, because I considered 
them specimens of wdiat is often to be met with in 
this country — the unpretending great, and the arro- 
gant little. I have no respect for titled rank, unless 
it be accompanied Vvith true nobility of soul ; but I 
have remarked, in all countries where artiticial 
distinctions exist, that the very highest classes 
are always the most courzeous and unassuming. 
Those who are well assured of their own standing 
are least apt to trespass on that of others ; whereas, 
nothing is so offensive as the aspirings of vulgar- 
itv, which thinks to elevate itself bv humiliatins: its 
neighbor. 

As I have brought tfiese families into contrast, 
I must notice their behavior in church. That of 
the nobleman's family was quiet, serious, and at- 
tentive. Not that they appeared to have any 
fervor of devotion, but rather a respect for sacred 
things, and sacred places, inseparable from good- 
breeding. The others, on the contrary, were in a 



12 2 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

perpetual flutter and whisper ; they betrayed a con- 
tinual consciousness of finery, and the sorry ambi- 
tion of being the wonders of a rural congregation. 

The old gentleman was the only one really at- 
tentive to the service. He took the whole burden of 
family devotion upon himself ; standing bolt up- 
right, and uttering the responses with a loud voice 
that might be heard all over the church. It was evi- 
dent that he was one of these thorough Church-and- 
king men, who connect the idea of devotion and 
loyalty ; who consider the Deity, somehow or other, 
of the government party, and religion "a very ex- 
cellent sort of thing, that ought to be countenanced 
and kept up." 

When he joined so loudly in the service, it 
seemed more by way of example to the lower orders, 
to show them that, though so great and wealthy, 
ie was not above being religious ; as I have seen 
a turtle-fed alderman swallow publicly a basin of 
charity soup, smacking his lips at every mouthful 
and pronouncing it "excellent food for the poor," 

When the service was at an end, I was curious 
to witness the several exits of my groups. The 
young noblemen and their sisters, as the day was 
fine, preferred strolling home across the fields, 
chatting with the country people as they went. 
The others departed as they came, in grand parade. 
Again were the equipages wheeled up to the gate. 
There was again the smacking of whips, the clat- 
tering of hoofs, and the glittering of harness. The 
horses started off almost at a bound ; the villagers 
again hurried to right and left ; the wheels threw 
up a cloud of dust, and the aspiring family was 
rapt out of sight in a whirlwind. 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 123 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 

Pittie olde age, within whose silver haires 
Honour and reverence evermore have rain'd. 

Marlowe's Tamburlaine. 

Those who are in the habit of remarking such 
matters must have noticed the passive quiet of an 
English landscape on Sunday. The clacking of 
the mill, the regularly recurring stroke of the flail, 
the din of the blacksmith's hammer, the whistling 
of the ploughman, the rattling of the cart, and all 
other sounds of rural labor are suspended. The 
very farm-dogs bark less frequently, being less dis- 
turbed by passing travellers. At such times I have 
almost fancied the wind sunk into quiet, and that 
the sunny landscape, with its fresh green tints 
melting into blue haze, enjoyed the hallowed calm. 

Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright, 
The bridal of the earth and sky. 

Well was it ordained that the day of devotion 
should be a day of rest. The holy repose which 
reigns over the face of nature has its moral influ- 
ence ; every restless passion is charmed down, and 
we feel the natural religion of the soul gently 
springing up within us. For my part, there are 
feelings that visit me, in a country church, amid 
the beautiful serenity of nature, which I experience 
nowhere else \ and if not a more religious, I think 



124 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

I am a better man on Sunday than on any other 
day of the seven. 

During my recent residence in the country, I 
used frequently to attend at the old village church. 
Its shadowy aisles, its mouldering monuments, its 
dark oaken panelling, all reverend with the gloom 
^of departed years, seemed to fit it for the haunt of 
:solemn meditation ; but, being in a wealthy, aristo- 
-cratic neighborhood, the glitter of fashion pene- 
trated even into the sanctuary ; and I felt myself 
•continually thrown back upon the world, by the 
irigidity and pomp of the poor worms around me. 
"The only being in the whole congregation who 
appeared thoroughly to feel the humble and 
prostrate piety of a true Christian was a poor 
decrepit old woman, bending under the weight 
of years and infirmities. She bore the traces 
of something better than abject poverty. The lin- 
gerings of decent pride were visible in her appear- 
ance. Her dress, though humble in the extreme, 
was scrupulously clean. Some trivial respect, too, 
had been awarded her, for she did not take her 
seat among the village poor, but sat alone on the 
steps of the altar. She seemed to have survived 
all love, all friendship, all society, and to have 
nothing left her but the hopes of heaven. When I 
saw her feebly rising and bending her aged form in 
prayer; habitually conning her prayer-book, which 
her palsied hand and failing eyes could not permit 
her to read, but which she evidently knew by heart, 
I felt persuaded that the faltering voice of that 
poor woman arose to heaven far before the re- 
sponses of the clerk, the swell of the organ, or the 
chanting of the choir. 



THE WIDOW AXD HER SOX. 125 

I am fond of loiteriir; about country churches^ 
and this was so deli:ihtfullv situated, that it fre- 
quentl}^ attracted me. It stood on a knoll, round 
which a small stream made a b^iautiful bend and 
then wound its wav throuirh a lonir reach of soft 
meadow scenery. The church was surrounded by 
yew trees, which seemed almost coeval with itself. 
Its tall Gothic spire shot up lightly from among 
them, with rooks and crows generally wheeling 
about it. I was seated there one still sunny morn- 
ing watching two laborers who were diggi'""! "^ grave. 
They had chosen one of the most 1 - and 

neglected corners of the churchyard, where, from 
the number of nameless graves around, it would ap- 
pear that the indigent and friendless were huddled 
into the earth. I was told that the new-made grave 
was for the only son of a poor widow. While I 
was meditating on the distinctions of worldly rank, 
which extend thus down into the very dust, the toll 
of the bell announced the approach of the funeral. 
They were the obsequies of poverty, with which 
pride had nothing to do. A coffin of the plainest 
materials, without pall or other covering, was borne 
by some of the villagers. The sexton walked be- 
fore with an air of cold indifference. There were no- 
mock mourners in the trappings of affected woe^ 
but there was one real mourner who feebly tottered 
after the corpse. It was the aged mother of the 
deceased, the poor old woman w4iom I had seen 
seated on the steps of the altali She was- supported 
by a humble friend, who was endeavoring to com- 
fort her. A few of the neighboring poor had joined 
the train, and some children of the village were 
running hand in hand, now shouting wdth unthink- 



126 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

ing mirth, and now pausing to gaze, with childish 
curiosity on the grief of the mourner. 

As the funeral train approached the grave, the 
parson issued from the church-porch, arrayed in 
the surplice, with prayer-book in hand, and attended 
by the clerk. The service, however, was a mere 
act of charity. The deceased had been destitute, 
and the survivor was penniless. It was shuffled 
through, therefore, in form, but coldly and unfeel- 
ingly. The well-fed priest moved but a few steps 
from the church door ; his voice could scarcely be 
heard at the grave ; and never did I hear the 
funeral service, that sublime and touching cere- 
mony, turned into such a frigid mummery of words. 

I approached the grave. The coffin was placed 
on the ground. On it were inscribed the name and 
age of the deceased — " George Somers^ aged 26 
years.'*' The poor mother had been assisted to 
kneel down at the head of it. Her withered hands 
were clasped, as if in prayer; but I could perceive, 
by a feeble rocking of the body, and a convulsive 
motion of the lips, that she was gazing on the last 
relics of her son with the yearnings of a mother's 
heart. 

Preparations were made to deposit the coffin in 
the earth. There was that bustling stir, which 
breaks so harshly on the feelings of grief and 
affection ; directions given in the cold tones of 
business; the striking of spades into sand and 
gravel ; which, at the"grave of those we love, is, of 
all sounds, the most withering. The bustle around 
seemed to waken the mother from a wretched rev- 
ery. She raised her glazed eyes, and looked abou: 
with a faint wildness. As the men approached wi" j 



THE WIDOW ANLk HER SON, 127 

cords to lower the coffin into the grave, she wrung 
her hands, and broke into an agony of grief. The 
poor woman who attended her took hcF- by the 
arm endeavoring to raise her from the earth, and 
to wliisper something Hke consolation : " Nay, now 
— nay, now — don't take it so sorely to heart." She 
could only shake her head, and wring her hands, 
as one not to be comforted. 

As they lowered the body into the earth, the 
creaking of the cords seemed to agonize her; but 
when, on some accidental obstruction, there was a 
jostling of the coffin, all the tenderness of the mother 
burst forth, as if any harm could come to him who 
was far bevond the reach of worldly suffering. 

I could see no more — my heart swelled into my 
throat — my eyes filled with tears ; I felt as if I 
were acting a barbarous part in standing by and 
gazing idly on this scene of maternal anguish. I 
wandered to another part of the churchyard, where 
I remained until the funeral train had dispersed. 

When I saw the mother slowly and painfully 
quitting the grave, leaving behind her the remains 
of all that was dear to her on earth, and returnino; 
to silence and destitution, my heart ached for her. 
What, thought I, are the distresses of the rich ? 
They have friends to soothe — pleasures to beguile 
— a world to divert and dissipate their griefs. 
Wliat are the sorrows of the young ? Their grow- 
ing minds soon close above the wound — their 
elastic spirits soon rise beneath the pressure — their 
green and ductile affections soon twine round new 
objects. But the sorrows of the poor, who have no 
outward appliances to soothe — the sorrows of the 
aged, with whom life at best is but a wintry day, 



1 28 Tin-: sk'E tl\ . -.^ o UK. 

and who can look for no after-growth of joy — the 
sorrows of a widow, aged, solitary, destitute, mourn- 
ing over an only son, the last solace of her years, 
— these are indeed sorrows which make us feel the 
impotency of consolation. 

It was some time before I left the churchyard. 
On my way homeward, I met with the woman who 
had acted as comforter : she was just returning from 
accompanying the mother to her lonely habitation, 
and I drew from her some particulars connected 
with the affecting scene I had witnessed. 

The parents of the deceased had resided in the 
village from childhood. They had inhabited one 
of the neatest cottages, and by various rural occu- 
pations, and the assistance of a small garden, had 
supported themselves creditably and comfortably, 
and led a happy and a blameless life. They had 
one son, who had grown up to be the staff' and 
pride of their age. " Oh, sir ! " said the good 
woman, "he was such a comely lad, so sweet-tem- 
pered, so kind to every one around him, so dutiful 
to his parents ! It did one's heart good to see 
him of a Sunday, drest out in his best, so tall, so 
straight, so cheery, supporting his old mother to 
church ; for she was always fonder of leaning on 
George's arm than on her good man's; and, poor 
soul, she might well be proud of him, for a ffner 
lad there was not in the country round." 

Unfortunately, the son was tempted, during a 
year of scarcity and agricultural hardship, to enter 
into the service of one of the small craft that plied 
on a neighboring river. He had not been long in 
this employ, when he was entrapped by a press- 
gang, and carried off to sea. His parents received 



THE WIDOW A XD HER SON. 12.9.. 

tidings of his seizure, but beyond that they could ' 
learn nothing. It was the loss of their main prop. 
The father, who was already infirm, grew heartless 
and melancholy and sunk into his grave. The 
widow, left lonely in her age and feebleness, could 
no longer support herself, and came upon the 
parish. Still there was a kind feeling towards 
her throughout the village, and a certain respect as - 
being one of the oldest inhabitants. As no one 
applied for the cottage in which she had passed so 
many happy days, she was permitted to remain in 
it, where she lived solitary and almost helpless. 
The few wants of nature were chiefly supplied, 
from the scanty productions of her little garden, 
which the neighbors would now and then cultivate 
for her. It v^as but a few days before the time at 
which these circumstances were told me, that she 
was gathering some vegetables for her repast, vv^hen 
she heard the cottage-door which faced the garden, 
suddenly opened. A stranger came out, and seemed 
to be looking eagerly and wildly around. He was 
dressed in seamen's clothes, was emaciated and 
ghastly pale, and bore the air of one broken by 
sickness and hardships. He saw her and has- 
tened towards her, but his steps were faint and 
faltering ; he sank on his knees before her andl 
sobbed like a child. The poor woman gazed upon 
him with a vacant and wandering eye. " Oh, my 
dear, dear mother ! don't you know your son ? 
your poor boy, George ? " It was, indeed, the wreck 
of her once noble lad ; who, shattered by wounds, 
by sickness and foreign imprisonment, had, at 
length, dragged his wasted limbs homeward, to 
repose among the scenes of his childhood. 

9 



130 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

I will not attempt to detail the particulars of such 
a meeting, where sorrow and joy were so com- 
pletely blended : still, he was alive ! he was come 
home ! he might yet live to comfort and cherish 
her old age ! Nature, however, was exhausted in 
Tiam ; and if any thing had been wanting to finish 
the work of fate, the desolation of his native cottage 
would have been sufficient. He stretched himself 
on the pallet on which his widowed mother had 
passed many a sleepless night, and he never rose 
from it again. 

The villagers, when they heard that George 
Somers had returned, crowded to see him, offering 
every comfort and assistance that their humble 
means afforded. He was too weak, however, to talk 
— he could only look his thanks. His mother was 
his constant attendant ; and he seemed unwilling 
to be helped by any other hand. 

There is something in sickness that breaks down 
the pride of manhood, that softens the heart, and 
brings it back to the feelings of infancy. Who that 
has languished, even in advanced life, in sickness 
and despondency, who that has pined on a weary 
bed in the neglect and loneliness of a foreign land, 
but has thought on the mother " that looked on his 
childhood,*' that smoothed his pillow, and admin- 
istered to his helplessness ? Oh, there is an endur- 
ing tenderness in the love of a mother to a son, that 
transcends all other affections of the heart. It is 
neither to be chilled by selfishness, nor daunted by 
danger, nor weakened by worthlessness, nor stiffed 
by ingratitude. She will sacrifice every comfort to 
his convenience ; she will surrender every pleasure 
to his enjoyment ; she will glory in his fame and 



THE WIDOW AND HER SOiV. 131 

exult in his prosperity ; and, if misfortune over- 
take him, he will be the dearer to her from mis- 
fortune ; and if disgrace settle upon his name, she 
will still love and cherish him in spite of his dis- 
grace ; and if all the world beside cast him off, she 
will be all the world to him. 

Poor George Somers had known what it was to 
be in sickness, and none to soothe — lonely and in 
prison, and none to visit him. He could not endure 
his mother from his sight ; if she moved away, his 
eye would follow her. She would sit for hours by 
his bed watching him as he slept. Sometimes 
he would start from a feverish dream, and look 
anxiously up until he saw her bending over him ; 
when he would take her hand, lay it on his bosom, 
and fall asleep with the tranquillity of a child. In 
this way he died. 

My first impulse on hearing this humble tale of 
afifliction was to visit the cottage of the mourner, 
and administer pecuniary assistance, and, if pos- 
sible, comfort. I found, however, on inquiry, that 
the good feelings of the villagers had prompted 
them to do every thing that the case admitted ; and 
as the poor know best how to console each other's 
sorrows, I did not venture to intrude. 

The next Sunday I was at the village church, 
when, to my surprise, I saw the poor old woman 
tottering down the aisle to her accustomed seat on 
the steps of the altar. 

She had made an effort to put on something like 
mourning for her son ; and nothing could be more 
touching than this struggle between pious affection 
and utter poverty — a black ribbon or so, a faded 
black handkerchief, and one or two more sucJp 



132 THE SKETCH-BOOK'. 

humble attempts to express by outward signs that 
grief wiiich passes show. When I looked round 
upon the storied monuments, the stately hatch- 
ments, the cold marble pomp with which grandeur 
mourned magnificently over departed pride, and 
turned to this poor widow, bowed down by age and 
sorrow at the altar of her God, and offering up the 
prayers and praises of a pious though a broken 
heart, I felt that this living monument of real grief 
was worth them all, 

I related her story to some of the wealthy mem- 
bers of the congregation, and they were moved by 
it. lliey exerted themselves to render her situa- 
tion more comfortable, and to lighten her afflic- 
tions. It was, however, but smoothing a few steps 
to the grave. In the course of a Sunday or two 
after, she was missed from her usual seat at church, 
and before I left the neighborhood I heard, with 
a feeling of satisfaction, that she had quietly 
breathed her last, and had gone to rejoin those she 
loved, in that world where sorrow is never known 
and friends are never parted. 



A ^UAJJAV J A LOAVOiV. 



133 



A SUNDAY IN LONDON * 

In a preceding paper I have spoken of an Eng- 
lish Sunday in the country and its tranquillizing 
effect upon the landscape ; but where is its sacred 
influence more strikingly apparent than in the very 
heart of that great Babel, London ? On this sacred 
day the gigantic monster is charmed into repose. 
The intolerable din and struggle of the week are 
at an end. The shops are shut. The fires of forges 
and manufactories are extinguished, and the sun, 
no longer obscured by murky clouds of smoke, 
pours down a sober yellow radiance into the quiet 
streets. The few pedestrians wq meet, instead of 
hurrying forward with anxious countenances, move 
leisurely along ; their brows are smoothed from 
the wrinkles of business and care ; they have put 
on their Sunday looks and Sunday manners with 
their Sunday clothes, and are cleansed in mind as 
well as in person. 

And now the melodious clangor of bells from 
church towers summons their several flocks to the 
fold. Forth issues from his mansion the family of 
the decent tradesman, the small children in the 
advance ; then the citizen and his comely spouse, 
followed by the grown-up daughters, with small 
morocco-bound prayer-books laid in the folds of 
their pocket-handkerchiefs. The housemaid looks 

* Part of a sketch omitted in the preceding editions. 



134 THE SKETCH-BOOR'. 

after them from the window, admiring the finery of 
the family, and receiving, perhaps, a nod and smile 
from her young mistresses, at whose toilet she has 
assisted. 

Now rumbles along the carriage of some mag- 
nate of the city, peradventure an alderman or a 
sheriff, and now the patter of many feet announces 
a procession of charity scholars in uniforms of 
antique cut, and each with a prayer-book under his 
arm. 

The ringing of bells is at an end ; the rumbling 
of the carriage has ceased ; the pattering of feet is 
heard no more ; the flocks are folded in ancient 
churches, cramped up in by-lanes and corners of 
the crowded city, where the vigilant beadle keeps 
watch, like the shepherd's dog, round the threshold 
of the sanctuary. For a time everything is 
hushed, but soon is heard the deep, pervading 
sound of the organ, rolling and vibrating through 
the empty lanes and courts, and the sweet chant- 
ing of the choir making them resound with melody 
and praise. Never have I been more sensible of 
the sanctifying effect of church music than when 
I have heard it thus poured forth, like a river 
of joy, through the inmost recesses of this great 
metropolis, elevating it, as it were, from all the sor- 
did pollutions of the week, and bearing the poor 
world-worn soul on a tide of triumphant harmony 
to heaven. 

The morning service is at an end. The streets 
are again alive with the congregations returning 
to their homes, but soon again relapse into silence. 
Now comes on the Sunday dinner, which, to the 
<^itv tradesman, is a meal of some importance. 



A SUNDA Y IN LONDON. 135 

There is more leisure for social enjoyment at the 
board. Members of the family can now gather 
together, who are separated by the laborious occu- 
pations of the week. A school-boy may be permit- 
ted on that day to come to the paternal home ; an 
old friend of the family takes his accustomed Sun- 
day seat at the board, tells over his well-known 
stories, and rejoices young and old with his well- 
known jokes. 

On Sunday afternoon the city pours forth its 
legions to breathe the fresh air and enjoy the sun- 
shine of the parks and rural environs. Satirists 
may say what they please about the rural enjoy- 
ments of a London citizen on Sunday, but to me 
there is something delightful in beholding the poor 
prisoner of the crowded and dusty city enabled thus 
to come forth once a week and throw himself upon 
the green bosom of nature. He is like a child 
restored to the mother's breast ; and they who first 
spread out these noble parks and magnificent pleas- 
ure-grounds w'hich surround this huge metropolis 
have done at least as much for its health and mor- 
ality as if they had expended the amount of cost in 
hospitals, prisons, and penitentiaries. 



1^,6 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 

A SHAKESPEARIAN RESEARCH. 

" A tavern is the rendezvous, the exchange, the staple of 
good fellows. I have heard my great-grandfather tell, how his 
great-great-grandfather should say, that it was an old prov- 
erb when his great-grandfather was a child, that 'it was 
a good wind that blew a man to the wine.' " 

Mothp:r Bombie. 

It is a pious custom in some Catholic countries 
to honor the memory of saints by votive Ughts burnt 
before their pictures. The popularity of a saint, 
therefore, may be known by the number of these 
offerings. One, perhaps, is left to moulder in the 
darkness of his little chapel ; another may have a 
solitary lamp to throw its blinking rays athwart his 
effigy ; while the whole blaze of adoration is lavished 
at the shrine of some beatified father of renown. 
The wealthy devotee brings his huge luminary of 
wax, the eager zealot, his seven-branched candle- 
stick ; and even the mendicant pilgrim is by no 
means satisfied that sufficient light is thrown upon 
the deceased unless he hangs up his little lamp of 
smoking oil. The consequence is, that in the eager- 
ness to enlighten, tLv^y are often apt to obscure ; and 
I have occasionally seen an unlucky saint almost 
smoked out of countenance by the officiousness of 
his followers. 

In like manner has it fared with the immortal 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 137 

Shakespeare. Every writer considers it his bounden 
duty to hght up some portion of his character or 
works, and to rescue some merit from oblivion. The 
commentator, opulent in words, produces vast 
tomes of dissertations ; the common herd of editors 
send up mists of obscurity from their notes at the 
bottom of each page ; and every casual scribbler 
brings his farthing rushlight of eulogy or research 
to swell the cloud of incense and of smoke. 

As I honor all established usages of my brethren 
of the quill, I thought it but proper to contribute 
my mite of homage to the memory of the illustrious 
bard. I was for some time, however, sorely 
puzzled in what way I should discharge this duty. 
I found myself anticipated in every attempt at a 
new reading ; every doubtful line had been ex- 
plained a dozen different ways, and perplexed 
beyond the reach of elucidation ; and as to fine 
passages, they had al] been amply praised by pre- 
vious admirers ; nay, 'so completely had the bard, 
of late, been overlarded with panegyric by a great 
German critic that it was difficult now to find even 
a fault that had not been argued into a beauty. 

In this perplexity I was one morning turning 
over his pages when I casually opened upon the 
comic scenes of Henry IV., and was, in a moment, 
completely lost in the madcap revelry of the Boar's 
Head Tavern. So vividly and naturally are these 
scenes of humor depicted, and with such force and 
consistency are the characters sustained, that they 
become mingled up in the mind with the facts and 
personages of real life. To few readers does it 
occur that these are all ideal creations of a poet's 
brain, and that, in sober truth, no such knot of 



138 THE SKETCn-BOOK. 

merry roisterers ever enlivened the dull neighbor- 
hood of Eastcheap. 

For my part, I love to give myself up to the illu- 
sions of poetry. A hero of fiction that never ex- 
isted is just as valuable to me as a hero of history 
that existed a thousand years since ; and, if I maj^ 
be excused such an insensibility to the common 
ties of human nature, I would not give up fat Jack 
for half the great men of ancient chronicle. 
What have the heroes of yore done for me 
or men like me ? They have conquered coun- 
tries of which I do not enjoy an acre, or they 
have gained laurels of which, I do not inherit a 
leaf, or they have furnished examples of hair- 
brained prowess, which I have neither the oppor- 
tunity nor the inclination to follow. But, old Jack 
Falstaff! kind Jack Falstaff 1 sweet Jack Fal- 
staff ! has enlarged the boundaries of human 
enjoyment; he has added vast regions of wit and 
good-humor, in which the poorest man may revel, 
and has bequeathed a never-failing inheritance of 
jolly laughter, to make mankind merrier and better 
to the latest posterity, 

A thought suddenly struck me. " I wiPl make a 
pilgrimage to Eastcheap," said I, closing the book, 
" and see if the old Boar's Head Tavern still exists. 
Who knows but I may light upon some legendary 
traces of Dame Quickly and her guests } At any 
rate, there will be a kindred pleasure in treading the 
halls once vocal with their mirth to that the toper 
enjoys in smelling to the empty cask, once filled 
with generous wine." 

The resolution was no sooner formed than put in 
execution. I forbear to treat of the various advent- 



I 



\ 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 139 

ures and wonders I encountered in my travels ; of 
the haunted regions of Cock Lane ; of the faded 
glories of Little Britain and the parts adjacent; 
what perils I ran in Cateaton Street and Old Jewry; 
of the renowned Guildhall and its two stunted 
giants, the pride and wonder of the city and the 
terror of all unlucky urchins; and how I visited 
London Stone, and struck ray staff upon it in im^ 
itation of that arch-rebel Jack Cade. 

Let it suffice to say, that I at length arrived in 
merry Eastcheap, that ancient region of wit and 
wassail, where the very names of the streets relished 
of good cheer, as Pudding Lane bears testimony even 
at the present day. For Eastcheap, says old Stow, 
" was always famous for its convivial doings. The 
cookes cried hot ribbes of beef roasted, pies well 
baked, and other victuals : there was clattering of 
pewter pots, harpe, pipe, and sawtrie." Alas ! how 
sadly is the scene changed since the roaring days 
of Falstaff and old Stow ! The madcap roisterer 
has given place to the plodding tradesman ; the 
clattering of pots and the sound of " harpe and 
sawtrie," to the din of carts and the accurst ding- 
ing of the dustman's bell ; and no song is heard, 
save, haply, the strain of some syren from Billings- 
gate, chanting the eulogy of deceased mackerel. 

I sought, in vain, for the ancient abode of Dame 
Quickly. The only relict of it is a boar's head, 
carved in relief in stone, which formerly served as 
the sign, but at present is built into the parting 
line of two houses which stand on the site of the 
renowned old tavern. 

For the history of this little abode of good fellow- 
ship I was referred to a tallow-chandler's widow 



I40 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

opposite, who had been born and brought up on 
the spot, and was looked up to as the indisputable 
chronicler of the neighborhood. I found her seated 
in a little back parlor, the window of which looked 
out upon a yard about eight feet square laid out 
as a flower-garden, while a glass door opposite af- 
forded a distant view of the street, through a vista of 
soap and tallow candles — the two views, which com- 
prised, in all probability, her prospects in life and 
the little world in which she had lived and moved 
and had her being for the better part of a century. 

To be versed in the history of Eastcheap, great 
and little, from London Stone even unto the Monu- 
ment, was doubtless, in her opinion, to be ac- 
quainted with the history of the universe. Yet, with 
all this, she possessed the simplicity of true wisdom, 
and that liberal communicative disposition which I 
have generally remarked in intelligent old ladies 
knowing in the concerns of their neighborhood. 

Her information, however, did not extend far 
back into antiquity. She could throw no light 
upon the history of the Boar's Head from the 
time that Dame Quickly espoused the valiant Pistol 
until the great fire of London when it was un- 
fortunately burnt down. It was soon rebuilt, and 
continued to flourish under the old name and sign, 
until a dying landlord, struck wuth remorse for 
double scores, bad measures, and other iniquities 
which are incident to the sinful race of publicans, 
endeavored to make his peace with Heaven by 
bequeathing the tavern to St. Michael's Church, 
Crooked Lane, toward the supporting of a chaplain. 
For some time the vestry meetings were regularly 
held thare. but it was observed that the old Boar 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERA', EASTCHEAP. 141 

never held up his head under church government. 
He gradually declined, and finally gave his last 
gasp about thirty years since. The tavern was then 
turned into shops ; but she informed me that a 
picture of it was still preserved in St. Michael's 
Church, which stood just in the rear. To get a 
sight of this picture was now my determination ; so, 
having informed myself of the abode of the sexton, 
I took m.y leave of the venerable chronicler of 
Eastcheap, my visit having doubtless raised greatly 
her opinion of her legendary lore and furnished an 
important incident in the history of her life. 

It cost me some difficulty and much curious in- 
quiry to ferret out the humble hanger-cn to the 
church. I had to explore Crooked Lane and 
divers little alleys and elbows and dark passages 
with which this old city is perforated like an an- 
cient cheese, or a worm-eaten chest of drawers. 
At length I traced him to a corner of a small court 
surrounded by lofty houses, where the inhabitants 
enjoy about as much of the face of heaven as a 
community of frogs at the bottom of a well. 

The sexton was a meek, acquiescing little man, 
of a bowing, lowly habit, yet he had a pleasant 
twinkling in his eye, and if encouraged, would now 
and then hazard a small pleasantry, such as a 
man of his low estate might venture to make in the 
company of high churchwardens and other mighty 
men of the earth. I found him in company with 
the deputy organist, seated apart, like Milton's 
angels, discoursing, no doubt, on high doctrinal 
points, and settling the affairs of ihe church over 
a friendly pot of ale ; for the lower classes of Eng- 
li'.b. seldom deliberate on any weighty matter with- 



142 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 



out the assistance of a cool tankard to clear their 
understandings. I arrived at the moment when 
they had finished their ale and their argument, and 
were about to repair to the church to put it in order ; 
so, having made known my wishes, 1 received their 
gracious permission to accompany them. 

The church of St. ^Michael's, Crooked Lane, stand- 
ing a short distance from Billingsgate, is enriched 
with the tombs of many fishmongers of renown ; 
and as every professioM has its galaxy of glory and 
its constellation of great men, I presume the monu- 
ment of a mighty fishmonger of the olden time is 
regarded with as much reverence by succeeding 
generations of the cratt, as poets feel on contemplat- 
ing the tomb of Virgil or soldiers the monument 
of a Marlborough or Turenne. 

I cannot but turn aside, while thus speaking of 
illustrious men, to observe that St. Michael's, 
Crooked Lane, contains also the ashes of that 
doughty champion, William Walworth, Knighf, 
who so manfully clove down the sturdy wight, Wat 
Tyler, in Smithfield — a hero worthy of honorable 
blazon, as almost the only Lord Mayor on record 
famous for deeds of arms, the sovereigns of Cock- 
ney being generally renowned as the most pacific 
of all potentates.* 

* The following was the ancient inscription on the monu- 
ment of this worthy, which, unhappily, was destroyed in the 
great conflagration. 

Hereunder lyth a man of Fame, 
William Walworth callyd by name : 
Fishmonger he was in lyfftime here, 
And twise Lord Maior, as in books appere ; 
Who, with courage stout and manly myght, 
Slew Jack Straw in Kyng Richard's sight. 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 143 

Adjoining the cliurch, in a small cemetery, im- 
mediately under the back window of what was 
once the Boar's Head, stands the tombstone of 
Robert Preston, whilom drawer at the tavern. It 
is now nearly a century since this trusty drawer of 
good liquor closed his bustling career and w^as 
thus quietly deposited within call of his customers. 
As I was clearing away the weeds from his epitaph 
the little sexton drew me on one side with a mys- 
terious air, and informed me in a low voice that 
once upon a time, on a dark wintry night, when the 
wind was unruly, howling, and whistling, banging 
about doors and windows, and twirling weather- 
cocks, so that the living were frightened out of their 
beds, and even the dead could not sleep quietly in 
their graves, the ghost of honest Preston, which 
happened to be airing itself in the churchyard, 
was attracted by the well-known call of " Waiter! " 
from the Boar's Head, and made its sudden appear- 
ance in the midst of a roaring club, just as the 

For which act done, and trew entent, 
The Kyng made him knyght incontinent 
And gave him armes, as here you see, 
To declare his fact and chivaldrie. 
He left this lyff the yere of our God 
Thirteen hundred fourscore and three odd. 

An error in the foregoing inscription has been corrected by 
the venerable Stow. " Whereas," saith he, '' it hath been far 
spread abroad by vulgar opinion, that the rebel smitten down 
so manfully by Sir William Walworth, the then worthy Lord 
Maior, was named Jack Straw, and not Wat Tyler, 1 thought 
good to reconcile this rash-conceived doubt by such testi- 
mony as I find in ancient and good records. The principal 
leaders, or captains, of the commons, were Wat Tyler, as the 
first man ; the seccnd was John, cr [ack, Straw, etc., etc. — 
Stow's Lo7ldoH. 



144 



THE SKE TCI.'-B O OK. 



parish clerk was singing a stave from the " mirr« 
garhmd of Captain Death ; " to the discomfiture of 
sundry train-band captains and the conversion of 
an infidel attorney, who became a zealous Christian 
on the spot, and was never known to twist the truth 
afterwards, except in the way of business. 

I beg it may be remembered, that I do not 
pledge myself for the authenticity of this anecdote, 
thouo-h it is well known that the church vards and 
by-corners of this old metropolis are very much in- 
fested with perturbed spirits ; and every one must 
have heard of the Cock Lane ghost, and the ap- 
parition that guards the regalia in the Tower 
which has frightened so many bold sentinels almost 
out of their wits. 

Be all this as it may, this Robert Preston seems 
to have been a worthy successor to the nimble- 
tongued Francis, who attended upon the revels of 
Prince Hal ; to have been equally prompt with his 
"Anon, anon, sir ;" and to have transcended his 
predecessor in honesty ; for Falstatf, the veracity 
of whose taste no man will venture to impeach, 
flatly accuses Francis of putting lime in his sack, 
whereas honest Preston's epitaph lauds him for the 
sobriety of his conduct, the soundness of iiis wine, 
and the fairness of his measure. ^ The worthy 

* As this inscription is rife with excellent morality, I tran- 
scribe it for the admonition of delinquent tapsters. It is, 
no doubt, the production of some choice spirit who once 
frequented the Boar's Head. 

Bacchus, to give the toping world surprise, 
Produced one sober son, and here he lies. 
Though rear'd among full hogsheads, he defy'd 
The charms of wine, and every one beside. 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERA\ EASTCHEAP. 145 

dignitaries of the church, however, did not appear 
much captivated by the sober virtues of the tap- 
ster ; the deputy organist, who had a moist look out 
of the eye, made some shrewd remark on the 
abstemiousness of a man brought up among full 
hogsheads, and the little sexton corroborated his 
opinion by a significant wink and a dubious shake 
of the head. 

Thus far my researches, though they threw much 
light on the history of tapsters, fishmongers, and 
Lord Mayors, yet disappointed me in the great ob- 
ject of my quest, the picture of the Boar's Head 
Tavern. No such painting was to be found in the 
church of St. Michael's. " Marry and amen," 
said I, " here endeth my research ! " So I was 
giving the matter up, with the air of a baffled anti- 
quary, when my friend the sexton, perceiving me 
to be curious in ev'erything relative to the old 
tavern, offered to show me the choice vessels of the 
vestry, which had been handed down from remote 
times when the parish meetings were held at the 
Boar's Head. These were deposited in the parish 
club-room, which had been transferred, on tlie de- 
cline of the ancient establishment, to a tavern in 
the neighborhood. 

A few steps brought us to the house, which stands 
No. 12 Miles Lane, bearing the title of The Mason's 
Arms, and is kept by Master Edward Honeyball, 
the "bully-rock" of the establishment. It is one 

O reader, if to justice thou 'rt inclined, 
Keep honest Preston daily in thy mind, 
lie wew good wine, took care to fill his pots, 
Had sundry virtues that excused his faults. 
You that on I'acchus have the like dependencef 
Pray copy Bob in measure and attendance. 
10 



146 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

of those little taverns which abound in the heart of 
the city and form the centre of gossip and intelli- 
gence of the neighborhood. We entered the bar- 
room, which was narrow and darkling, for in these 
close lanes but few rays of reflected light are en- 
abled to struggle down to the inhabitants, whose 
broad day is at best but a tolerable twilight. The 
room was partitioned into boxes, each containing 
a table spread with a clean white cloth, ready for 
dinner. This showed that the guests were of the 
good old stamp, and divided their day equally, for 
it was but just one o'clock. At the lower end of 
the room was a clear coal iire, before which a 
breast of lamb was roastincr. A row of brijrht brass 
candlesticks and pewter mugs glistened along the 
mantelpiece, and an old-fashioned clock ticked in 
one corner. There was something primitive in 
this medley of kitchen, parlor, and hall that car- 
ried me back to earlier times, and pleased me. 
The place, indeed, was humble, but everything had 
that look of order and neatness which bespeaks the 
superintendence of a notable English housewife. 
A group of amphibious-looking beings, who might 
be either fishermen or sailors, were regaling them- 
selves in one of the boxes. As I was a visitor of 
rather higher pretensions, I was ushered into a 
little misshapen back room, having at least nine 
corners. It was lighted by a sky-light, furnished 
with antiquated leathern chairs, and ornamented 
with the portrait of a fat pig. It was evidently 
appropriated to particular customers, and I found 
a shabby gentleman in a red nose and oil-cloth 
hat seated in one corner meditating on a half- 
empty pot of porter. 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERX, EASTCHEAP. 147 

The old sexton had taken the hmdlady aside, 
and with an air of profound importance imparted 
to iier my errand. Dame Honeyball was a Hkely, 
plump, bustling little woman, and no bad substi- 
tute for that paragon of hostesses, Dame Quickly. 
She seemed delighted with an opportunity to oblige, 
and, hurrying upstairs to the archives of her house, 
where the precious vessels of the parish club were 
deposited, she returned, smiling and courtesying, 
with them in her hands. 

The first she presented me was a japanned iron 
tobacco-box of gigantic size, out of which, I was 
told, the vestry had smoked at their stated meet- 
infjs since time immemorial, and which was never 
suffered to be profaned by vulgar hands, or used on 
common occasions. I received it with becoming 
reverence, but what was my delight at beholding 
on its cover the identical painting of which I was 
in quest ! There was displayed the outside of the 
Boar's Head Tavern, and before the door was to 
be seen the whole convivial group at table, in full 
revel, pictured with that wonderful fidelity and 
force with which the portraits of renowned gen- 
erals and commodores are illustrated on tobacco- 
boxes, for the benefit of posterity. Lest, however, 
there should be any mistake, the cunning limner 
had warily inscribed the names of Prince Hal and 
Falstaff on the bottoms of their chairs. 

On the inside of the cover was an inscription, 
nearly obliterated, recording that this box was the 
gift of Sir Richard Gore, for the use of the vestry 
meetings at the Boar's Head Tavern, and that it 
was "repaired and beautified by his successor, Mr. 
John Packard, 1767." Such is a faithful description 



148 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

of this august and venerable relic, and I question 
whether the learned Scriblerius contemplated his 
Roman shield, or the Knights of the Round Table 
the long-sought San-greal, with more exultation. 

While 1 was meditating on it with enraptured 
gaze. Dame Honeyball, who was highly gratified 
by the interest it excited, put in my hands a drink- 
ing-cup or goblet which also belonged to the ves- 
try, and was descended from the old Boar's Head. 
It bore the inscription of having been the gift of 
Francis Wythers, Knight, and was held, she told 
me, in exceeding great value, being considered very 
" antyke." This last opinion was strengthened by 
the shabby gentleman with the red nose and oil- 
cloth hat, and whom I stro-ngly suspected of being 
a lineal descendant from the valiant Bardolph. Pie 
suddenly aroused from his meditation on the pot 
of porter, and casting a knowing look at the goblet, 
exclaimed, " Ay, ay ! the head don't ache now that 
made that there article." 

The great importance attached to this memento 
of ancient revelry by modern churchwardens, at 
first puzzled me ; but there is nothing sharpens the 
apprehension so much as antiquarian research ; for 
I immediately perceived that this could be no other 
than the identical " parcel-gilt goblet," on which 
Falstaff made his loving but faithless vow to Dame 
Quickly, and which would, of course, be treasured 
up with care among the regalia of her domains, as 
a testimony of that solemn contract.'* 

* "Thou didst swear to me upon z. fajxel-i^ilt goblef, sitting 
in my Dolphin chamber, at the round table, by a sea-coal tire, 
on Wednesday, in Whitsun-week, when the prince broke thy 
head for likening his father to a singing man at Windsor ; 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCIIEAP. 149 

Mine hostess, indeed, gave me a long history 
how the goblet had been handed down from genera- 
tion to generation. She also entertained me with 
many particulars concerning the worthy vestrymen 
who have seated themselves thus quietly on the 
stools of the ancient roisterers of Eastcheap, and, 
like so many commentators, utter clouds of smoke 
in honor of Shakespeare. I'hese I forbear to relate, 
lest my readers should not be as curious in these 
matters as myself. Suffice it to say, the neighbors, 
one and all, ab^ut Eistchenp, believe that Falstaff 
and his merry crew actually lived and revelled there. 
Nay, there are several legendary anecdotes concern- 
ing him still extant among the oldest frequenters, 
of the Mason's Arms, which t'.iey give as transmit- 
ted down from their forefathers : and ^fr. M'Kash,. 
an Irish hair-dresser, whose shop stands on the site 
of the old Boar's Head, has several dry jokes of 
Fat Jack's, not laid down in the books, with which 
he makes his customers ready to die of laughter. 

I now turned to my friend the sexton to make some 
further inquiries, but I found him sunk in pensive 
meditation. His head had declined a little on one- 
side ; a deep sigh heaved from the very bottom of 
his stomach, and, though I could not see a tear 
trembling in his eye, yet a moisture was evidently 
stealing from a corner of his mouth. I followed 
the direction of his eye through the door which 
stood open, and found it fixed wistfully on the sav- 
ory breast of lamb, roasting in dripping richness 
before the fire. 

thou didst swear to me then, as I was washing thy wound, to 
marry me, and make me my lady, thy wif*^. Canst thou deny 
it t "—Henry IV., Part 2. 



I50 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

I now called to mind that in the eagerneii* of 
my recondite investigation, I was keeping the poor 
man from his dinner. My bowels yearned with 
sympathy, and putting in his hand a small token of 
my gratitude and goodness, I departed with a 
hearty benediction on him, Dame Honeyball, and 
the parish club of Crooked Lane — not forgetting my 
shabby, but sententious friend, in the oil-cloth hat 
and copper nose. 

Thus have I given a "tedious brief" account of 
this interesting research, for which, if it prove too 
short and unsatisfactory, I can only plead my inex- 
perience in this branch of literature, so deservedly 
popular at the present day. I am aware that a 
more skilful illustrator of the immortal bard would 
have swelled the materials I have touched upon to 
a good merchantable bulk, comprising the biog- 
raphies of William Walworth, Jack Straw, and 
Robert Preston ; some notice of the eminent fish- 
mongers of St. Michael's ; the history of Eastcheap, 
^reat and little ; private anecdotes of Dame 
Honeyball and her pretty daughter, whom I have 
not even mentioned; to say nothing of a damsel 
tending the breast of lamb (and Vv'hom, by the way, 
I remarked to be a comely lass v/ith a neat foot and 
ankle) ; — the whole enlivened by the riots of Wat 
Tyler, and illuminated by the great fire of London. 

All this I leave, as a rich mine, to be worked by 
future commentators, nor do I despair of seeing 
the tobacco-box, and the " parcel-gilt goblet " 
^hich I have thus brought to light the subject of 
future engravings, and almost as fruitful of volumi- 
nous dissertations and disputes as the shield of 
Achilles or the far-famed Portland Vase. 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 



151 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 

A COLLOQUY IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 

I know that all beneath the moon decays, 
And what by mortals in this world is brought, 
In time's great periods shall return to nought. 

I know that all the muses' heavenly rays, 
With toil of sprite which are so dearly bought, 
As idle sounds, of fe^v or none are sought — 

That there is nothing lighter than mere praise. 

Drummond of Hawthornden. 

There are certain half-dreamino: moods of mind 
in which we naturally steal away from noise and 
glare, and seek some quiet haunt where we may 
indulge our reveries and build our air castles un- 
disturbed. In such a mood I was loitering about 
the old gray cloisters of Westminster Abbey, enjoy- 
ing that luxury of wandering thought which one is 
apt to dignify with the name of reflection, when 
suddenly an irruption of madcap boys from West- 
minster school, playing at football, broke in upon 
the monastic stillness of the place, making the 
vaulted passages and mouldering tombs echo with 
their merriment. I sought to take refuge from 
their noise by penetrating still deeper into the 
solitudes of the pile, and applied to one of the 
vergers for admission to the library. He con- 
ducted me through a portal rich with the crum- 
bling sculpture of former ages, which opened upon 
a gloomy passage leading to the chapter-house and 



152 



THE SKErCH-BOOK. 



the chamber in which Doomsday Book is deposited. 
Just within the passage is a small door on the left. 
To this the verger applied a key ; it was double 
locked, and opened with some difficulty, as if sel- 
dom used. \Ve now ascended a dark narrow stair- 
case, and, passing through a second door, entered 
the library. 

1 found myself in a lofty antique hall, the roof 
supported by massive joists of old English oak. It 
was soberly lighted by a row of Gothic windows at 
a considerable height from the floor, and which 
apparently opened upon the roofs of the cloisters. 
An ancient picture of some reverend dignitary of 
the Church in his robes hung over the fireplace. 
Around the hall and in a small gallery were the 
"books, arranged in carved oaken cases. They con- 
sisted principally of old polemical writers, and were 
much more worn by time than use. In the centre 
of the library was a solitary table with two or three 
books on it, an inkstand without ink, and a few 
pens parched b}' long disuse. The place seemed 
fitted for quiet study and profound meditation. It 
Avas buried deep among the massive walls of the 
abbey and shut up from the tumult of the world. 
I could only hear now and then the shouts of the 
school-boys faintly swelling from the cloisters, and 
the sound of a bell tolling for prayers echoing 
soberly along the roofs of the abbey. By degrees 
the shouts of merriment grew fainter and fainter, 
and at length died away; the bell ceased to toll, 
and a profound silence reigned through the dusky 
hall. 

I had taken down a little thick quarto, curiously 
bound in parchment, with brass clasps, and seated 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 153 

myself at the table in a venerable elbow-chair. In- 
stead of reading, however, I was beguiled by the 
solemn monastic air and lifeless quiet of the place, 
into a train of musing. As I looked around upon 
the old volumes in their mouldering covers, thus 
ranged on the shelves and apparently never dis- 
turbed in their repose, I could not but consider the 

librarv a kind of literarv catacomb, where authors. 

■J J ^ 

like mummies, are piously entombed and left to 
blacken and moulder in dusty oblivion. 

How much, thought I, has each of these volumes, 
now thrust aside with such indifference, cost some 
achimr head ! how many wearv days ! how many 
sleepless nights 1 How have their authors buried 
themselves in the solitude of cells and cloisters, 
shut themselves up from the face of man, and the 
still more blessed face of Nature ; and dev^oted 
themselves to painful research and intense reflec- 
tion 1 And all for what ? To occupy an inch of 
dusty shelf — to have the titles of their works read 
now and then in a future age by some drowsy 
churchman or casual straggler like m3^self, and in 
another age to be lost even to remembrance. Such 
is the amount of this boasted immortality. A mere 
temporary rumor, a local sound ; like the tone of 
that bell which has tolled among these towers, fill- 
ing the ear for a moment, lingering transiently in 
echo, and then passing away, like a thing that was 
not ! 

While I sat half-murmuring, half-meditating, these 
unprofitable speculations with my head resting on 
my hand, I was thrumming with the other hand 
upon the quarto, until I accidentally loosened the 
clasps ; when, to my utter astonishment, the little 



154 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

book gave two or three yawns, like one awaking 
from a deep sleep, then a husky hem, and at length 
began to talk. At first its voice was very hoarse 
and broken, being much troubled by a cobweb 
which some studious spider had woven across it, 
and having probably contracted a cold from long 
exposure to the chills and damps of the abbey. In 
a short time, however, it became more distinct, and 
I soon found it an exceedingly fluent, conversable 
little tome. Its language, to be sure, was rather 
quaint and obsolete, and its pronunciation what, in 
the present day, would be deemed barbarous ; but 
I shall endeavor, as far as 1 am able, to render it 
in modern parlance. 

It began with railings about the neglect of the 
world, about merit being suffered to languish in 
obscurity, and other such commonplace topics of 
literary repining, and complained bitterly that it 
had not been opened for more than two centuries 
— that the dean only looked now and then into the 
library, sometimes took down a volume or two, 
trifled with them for a few moments, and then re- 
turned them to their shelves. " What a plague 
do they mean ? " said the little quarto, which I 
began to perceive was somewhat choleric — " what 
a plague do they mean by keeping several thou- 
sand volumes of us shut up here, and watched 
by a set of old vergers, like so many beauties 
in a harem, merely to be looked at now and 
then by the dean ? Books were written to give 
pleasure and to be enjoyed ; and I would have a 
rule passed that the dean should pay each of us a 
visit at least once a year ; or, if he is not equal to 
the task, let them once in a while turn loose the 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 155 

whole school of Westminster among us, that at any 
rate we may now and then have an airing." 

" Softly, my worthy friend," replied 1 ; " you are 
no"- aware how much better you are off than most 
books of your generation. By being stored away 
in this ancient library you are like the treasured 
remains of those saints and monarchs which lie en- 
shrined in the adjoining chapels, while the remains 
of their contemporary mortals, left to the ordinary 
course of Nature, have long since returned to dust." 

" Sir," said the little tome, ruffling his leaves 
and looking big, " I was written for all the world, 
not for the bookworms of an abbey. I was intended 
to circulate from hand to hand, like other great 
contemporary works ; but here have I been clasped 
up for more than two centuries, and might have 
silently fallen a prey to these worms that are play- 
ing the very vengeance with my intestines if you 
had not by chance given me an opportunity of 
uttering a few last words before I go to pieces." 

" My good friend," rejoined I, " had you been 
left to the circulation of which you speak, you 
would long ere this have been no more. To judge 
from your physiognomy, you are now well stricken 
in years : very few of your contemporaries can be 
at present in existence, and those few owe their 
longevity to being immured like yourself in old 
libraries ; which, suffer me to add, instead of liken- 
ing to harems, you might more properly and grate- 
fully have compared to those inhrmaries attached 
to religious establishments for the benefit of the 
old and decrepit, and where, by quiet fostering 
and no employment, they often endure to an amaz- 
iagly good-for-nothing old age. You talk of your 



156 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

contemporaries as if in circulation. Where do wq 
meet with their works ?. What do we hear of Robert 
Grosteste of Lincoln? No one could have toiled 
harder than he for immortality. He is said to have 
written nearly two hundred volumes. He built, as 
it were, a pyramid of books to perpetuate his name : 
but, alas ! the pyramid has long since fallen, and 
only a few fragments are scattered in various 
libraries, where they are scarcely disturbed even 
by the antiquarian. What do we hear of Giraldus 
Cambrensis, the historian, antiquary, philosopher, 
theologian, and poet ? He declined two bishoprics 
that he might shut himself up and write for poster- 
ity ; but posterity never inquires after his labors. 
What of Henry of Pluntingdon, w^ho, besides a 
learned history of England, wrote a treatise on the 
contempt of the world, which the world has re- 
venged by forgetting him .'' \\'hat is quoted of 
Joseph of Exeter, styled the miracle of his age in 
classical composition ? Of his three great heroic 
poems, one is lost forever, excepting a mere frag- 
ment ; the others are known only to a few of the 
curious in literature ; and as to his love verses and 
epigrams, they have entirely disappeared. What is 
in current use of John Wallis the Franciscan, who 
acquired the name of the tree of life ? Of William 
of Malmsbury^^of Simeon of Durham — of Bene- 
dict of Peterborough — of John Hanvill of St. 

Albans— of " 

" Prithee, friend," cried the quarto in a testy 
tone, " how old do you think me .'' You are talking 
of authors that lived long before my time, and 
wrote either in Latin or French, so that they in a 
manner expatriated themselves, and deserved to 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITER A TURE, 157 

be forgotten ; * but I, sir, was ushered into the 
world from the press of the renowned Wynkyn de 
Worde. I was written in my own native tongue, 
at a time when the hinguage had become fixed ; 
and indeed I was considered a model of pure and 
elegant English." 

(I should observe that these remarks were 
couched in such intolerably antiquated terms, that 
I have had infinite difficulty in rendering them into 
modern phraseology.) 

" I cry you mercy," said I, "for mistaking your 
a^e ; but it matters little : almost all the writers of 
your time have likewise passed into forgetfulness, 
and De Worde's publications are mere literary 
rarities among book-collectors. The purity and 
stability of language, too, on which you found your 
claims to perpetuity, have been the fallacious de- 
pendence of authors of every age, even back to the 
times of the worthy Robert of Gloucester, who wrote 
his history in rhymes of mongrel Saxon. t Even 

*" [n Latin and French hath many soueraine wittes had 
great delyte to endite, and have many noble thinges fulfilde, 
but certes there ben some that speaken their poisye in 
French, of which speche the P>enchmen have as good a 
fantasye as we have in hearying of Frenchmen's Englishe." 
— Chaucer's Testamoit of Loz'e. 

t Molinshed, in his C/iroiiiclc, observes, " Afterwards, also, 
by diligent travell of Geffry Chaucer and John Gowre, in the 
time of Richard the Second, and after them of John Scogan 
and John Lydgate, monke of Berrie, our said toong was 
brought to an excellent passe, notwithstanding that it never 
came unto the type of perfection until the time of Queen 
Elizabeth, wherein John Jewell, Bishop of Sarum, John Fox, 
and sundrie learned and excellent writers, have fully accom- 
plished the ornature of the same to their great praise and im- 
mortal commendation." 



158 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

now many talk of Spenser's ' well of pure English 
UPidefiled,' as if the language ever sprang from a 
well or fountain-head, and was not rather a mere 
confluence of various tongues perpetually subject 
to changes and intermixtures. It is this which has 
made English literature so extremely mutable, and 
the reputation built upon it so fleeting. Unless 
thought can be committed to something more per- 
manent and unchangeable than such a medium, 
even thought must share the fate of everything else, 
and fall into decay. This should serve as a check 
upon the vanity and exultation of the most popular 
writer. He finds the language in which he has em- 
barked his fame gradually altering and subject to 
the dilapidations of time and the caprice of fashion. 
He looks back and beholds the early authors of 
his country, once the favorites of their day, sup- 
planted by modern writers. A few short ages have 
covered them with obscurity, and their merits can 
only be relished by the quaint taste of the book- 
worm. And such, he anticipates, will be the fate 
of his own work, which, however it may be admired 
in its day and held up as a model of purity, will in 
the course of years grow antiquated and obsolete, 
until it shall become almost as unintelligible in its 
native land as an Egyptian obelisk or one of those 
Runic inscriptions said to exist in the deserts of 
Tartary. I declare," added I, with some emotion, 
" when I contemplate a modern library, filled with 
new works in all the bravery of rich gilding and 
binding, I feel disposed to sit down and weep, like 
the good Xerxes, when he surveyed his army, 
pranked out in all the splendor of military array, 



TJIE MUTABILITY OF LITER A TURK . ^^ 

and reflected that in one hundred years not jne of 
them would be in existence." 

'• Ah," said the httle quarto, with a heavy sigh, 
" I see how it is : these modern scribblers have 
superseded all the good old authors. I suppose 
nothing is read nowadays but Sir Philip Sidney's 
Arcadia, Sackville's stately plays and Mirror for 
Magistrates, or the fine-spun euphuisms of the ' un- 
paralleled John Lyly.' " 

" There you are again mistaken," said I ; '• the 
writers whom you suppose in vogue, because they 
happened to be so when you were last in circula- 
tion, have long since had their day. Sir Philip 
Sidney's Arcadia, the immortality of which was so 
fondly predicted by his admirers,^'- and which, in 
truth,' was full of noble thoughts, delicate images, 
and graceful turns of language, is now scarcely ever 
mentioned. Sackville has strutted into obscurity ; 
and even Lyly, though his writings were once the 
delight of a court, and apparently perpetuated by a 
proverb, is now scarcely known even by name. A 
whole crowd of authors who wrote and wrangled at 
the time, have likewise gone down with all their 
writings and their controversies. Wave after wave 
of succeeding literature has rolled over them, until 



* " Live ever sweete booke; the simple image of his gentle 
witt, and the golden pillar of his noble courage; and ever 
notify unto the world that thy w^riter was the secretary of elo- 
quence, the breath of the muses, the honey bee of the dainty- 
est flowers of witt and arte, the pith of morale and intel- 
lectual virtues, the arme of Bellona in the field, the tongue 
of Suada in the chamber, the spirite of Practise in esse, and 
the paragon of excellence in ^x'mt"— Harvey Pierce's Super* 
grogation. 



i6o THE SKETCH-BOCK. 

they are buried so deep, that it is only now and 
then that some industrious diver after fragments 
of antiquity brings up a specimen for tlie gratifica- 
tion of the curious. 

" For my part," I continued, " I consider this 
mutabihty of language a wise precaution of Provi- 
dence for the benefit of the world at large, and of 
authors in particular. To reason from analogy, 
we daily behold the varied and beautiful tribes of 
vegetables springing up, flourishing, adorning the 
fields for a short time, and then fading into dust, 
to make way for their successors. Were not this 
the case, the fecundity of nature would be a griev- 
ance instead of a blessing. The earth would groan 
with rank and excessive vegetation, and its surface 
become a tangled wilderness. In like manner, the 
works of genius and learning decline and make 
way for subsequent productions. Language grad- 
ually varies, and with it fade away the writings of 
authors who have flourished their allotted time ; 
otherwise the creative powers of genius would over- 
stock the world, and the mind would be completely 
bewildered in the endless mazes of literature. 
Formerly there were some restraints on this exces- 
sive multiplication. Works had to be transcribed 
by hand, which was a slow and laborious opera- 
tion ; they were written either on parchment, which 
was expensive, so that one work was often erased 
to make way for another ; or on papyrus, which 
was fragile and extremely perishable. Authorship 
was a limited and unprofitalDle craft, pursued chiefly 
by monks in the leisure and solitude of their clois- 
ters. The accumulation of manuscripts was slow 
and costly, and confined almost entirely to monas* 



77//; JA". ■.;.■■ ;.y /'. ' c." :.:ti:i:.: ture. i6i 

teries. To these circumstances it may, i:i some 
measure, be owin;^ that we have not been inundated 
by the intellect of antiquity — that the fountains of 
thought have not been broken up, and modern 
genius drowned in the deluge. But the inventions 
of paper and tiie press have put an end to all these 
restraints. Thev have made every one a writer, and 
enabled every mind to pour itself into print, and 
di'^'^use itself over the whole intellectual world. 
T!:e consequences are alarming. The strer.:n of 
literature has swollen into a torrent — augmented 
in:o a river — expanded into a sea. A few centuries 
since fue or six hundred manuscripts constituted 
a great library ; but what would you say to libraries, 
such as actually exist, containing three or four hun- 
dred thousand volumes ; legions of authors at the 
same time busy ; and the press going on with fear- 
fully increasing activity, to double and quadruple 
the number .'' Unless some unforeseen mortality 
should break out among the progeny of the Muse,' 
now that she h;is become so prolific, I tremble for 
posterity. 1 ftar the mere fluctuation of language 
will not be sufficient. Criticism mav do much ; it 
increases v^'ith the increase of literature, and re- 
sembles one of those salutary checks on population 
spoken of by economists. All possible encourage- 
ment, therefore, sliould be given to the grov^'th of 
critics, good or bad. But I fear all will be in vain ; 
let criticism do what it may, writers will write, 
printers will print, and the world will inevitably be 
overstocked with good books. It will soon be the 
employir.ent of a lifetime merely to learn their 
Dames. Many a man of passable information at- 
the present day reads scarcely anything but re- 
II 



1 62 THE SKErCH-BOOK. 

views, and before long a man of erudition will be 
Utile l3etter than a mere walking catalogue." 

" My very good sir,'' said the little quarto, yawn- 
ing most drearily in my face, " excuse my interrupt- 
ing you, but I perceive you are rather given to 
prose. I would ask the fate of an author who was 
making some noise just as I left the world. His 
reputation, however, was considered quite tempo- 
rary. U'he learned shook their heads at him, for 
he was a poor, half-educated varlet, that knew little 
of Latin, and nothing of Greek, and had been 
obliged to run the country for deer-stealing.* I 
think his name was Shakespeare. I presume he 
soon sunk into oblivion." 

" On the contrary," said I, "it is owing to that 
very man that the literature of his period has ex- 
perienced a duration beyond the ordinary term of 
English literature. There rise authors now and 
then who seem proof against the mutability of 
language because they have rooted themselves in 
the unchanging principles of human nature. They 
are like gigantic trees that we sometimes see on the 
banks of a stream, which by their vast and deep 
roots, penetrating through the mere surface and 
laying hold on the very foundations of the earth, 
preserve the soil around them from being swept 
away by the ever-flowing current, and hold up many 
a neighboring plant, and perhaps worthless weed, 
to perpetuity. Such is the case with Shakespeare, 
whom we behold defvino^ the encroachments of 
time, retaining in modern use the language and 
literature of his day, and giving duration to many 
an indifferent author, merely from having flourished 
in his vicinity. But even he, I grieve to say, is 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 163 

gradually assuming the tint of age, and his whole 
form is overrun by a profusion of commentators, 
who, like clambering vines and creepers, almost 
bury the noble plant that upholds them." 

Here the little quarto began to heave his sides 
and chuckle, until at length he broke out into a 
plethoric fit of laughter that had wellnigh choked 
him by reason of his excessive corpulency. 
" Mighty well 1 " cried he, as soon as he could re- 
cover breath, "mighty well ! and so you would per- 
suade me that the literature of an age is to be per- 
petuated by a vagabond deer-stealer ! by a man 
without learning ! by a poet I forsooth — a poet ! " 
And here he wheezed forth another fit of lauirhter. 

I confess that I felt somewhat nettled at this 
rudeness, which, however, I pardoned on account 
of his having flourished in a less polished age. I 
determined, nevertheless, not to give up my point. 

"Yes," resumed I positively, " a poet; for of all 
writers he has the best chance for immortality. 
Others may write from the head, but he writes from 
the heart, and the heart will always understand him. 
He is the faithful portrayer of Nature, whose feat- 
ures are always the same and always interesting. 
Prose writers are voluminous and unwieldy ; their 
pages crowded with commonplaces, and their 
thoughts expanded into tediousness. But with the 
true poet every thing is terse, touching, or brilliant. 
He gives the choicest thoughts in the choicest 
language. He illustrates them by everything that 
he sees most striking in nature and art. He 
enriches them by pictures of human life, such as 
it is passing before him. His writings, therefore, 
contain the spirit, the aroma, if I may use the 



164 THE SKETCIf-BOOK. 

phrase, of the age in which lie lives. They are 
caskets which inclose within a small compass the 
wealth of the language — its family jewels, which are 
thus transmitted in a portable form to posterity. 
The setting may occasionally be antiquated, and 
require now and then to be renewed, as in the case 
of Chaucer; but the brilliancy and intrinsic value 
of the gems continue unaltered. Cast a look back 
over the long reach of literary history. What vast 
valleys of dulness, filled with monkish legends and 
academical controversies ! What bogs of theo- 
logical speculations ! What dreary wastes of meta- 
physics ! Here and there only do we behold the 
heaven-illumined bards, elevated like beacons on 
their widely-separated heights, to transmit the pure 
light of poetical intelligence from age to age." ^ 

I was just about to launch forth into eulogiums 
upon the poets of the day when the sudden opening 
of the door caused me to turn my head. It was 
the verger, who came to inform me that it was time 
to close the libiary. I sought to have a parting 
word with the quarto, but the worthy little tome w^as 
silent ; the clasps were closed : and it looked per- 

* Thorow earth and waters cleepe, 

The pen by skill doth passe: 
Andfeatly nyps the worldes abuse. 

And shoes us in a glasse, 
The vertu and the vice 

Of every wight alyve ; 
The honey comb that bee doth make 

Is not so sweet in hyve, 
As are the golden leves 

That drops from poet's head ! 
Which doth surmount our common talke 

As farre as dross doth lead. 

Churchyard. 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITER A TURE. 165 

fectly unconscious of all that had passed. I have 
been to the library two or three times since, and 
have endeavored to draw it into further conversa- 
tion, but in vain ; and whether all this rambling 
colloquy actually took place, or whether it was 
another of those odd day-dreams to which I am 
subject, I have never, to this moment, been able 
to discorer. 



1 66 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 



RURAL FUNERALS. 

Here's a few flowers ! but about midnight more : 
The herbs that have on them cold dew o' the night 

Are strewings fitt'st for graves 

You were as flowers now withered ; even so 
These herblets shall, which we upon you strow. 

Cymbeline. 

Among the beautiful and simple-hearted customs 
of rural life which still linger in some parts of Eng- 
land are those of strewing flowers before the fu- 
nerals and planting them at the graves of departed 
friends. These, it is said, are the remains of some 
of the rites of the primitive Church ; but they are 
of still higher antiquity, having been observed 
among the Greeks and Romans, and frequently 
mentioned by their writers, and were no doubt the 
spontaneous tributes of unlettered affection, origi- 
nating long before art had tasked itself to modulate 
sorrow into song or story it on the monument. 
They are now only to be met with in the most dis- 
tant and retired places of the kingdom, where fashion 
and innovation have not been able to throng in and 
trample out all the curious and interesting traces of 
the olden time. 

In Glamorganshire, we are told, the bed whereon 
the corpse lies is covered with flowers, a custom 
alluded to in one of the wild and plaintive ditties 
of Oohelia : 



RURAL FUNERALS. 167 

r 

White his shroud as the mountain snow, 

Larded all with sweet flowers; 
Which be-wept to the grave did go, 

With true love showers. ' ' 

There is also a most delicate and beautiful rite 
observed in some of the remote villages of the south 
at the funeral of a female who has died young and 
unmarried. A chaplet of white flowers is borne be- 
fore the corpse by a young girl nearest in age, size, 
and resemblance, and is afterwards hung up in the 
church over the accustomed seat of the deceased. 
These chaplets are sometimes made of white paper, 
in imitation of flowers, and inside of them is gener- 
ally a pair of white gloves. They are intended as 
emblems of the purity of the deceased, and the 
crown of glory w'hich she has received in heaven. 

In some parts of the country, also, the dead are 
carried to the grave with the singing of psalms and 
hymns — a kind of triumph, '' to show," says Bourne, 
" that they have finished their course with joy, and 
are become conquerors." This, I am informed, is 
observed in some of the northern counties, particu- 
larly ia Northumberland, and it has a pleasing, 
though melancholy effect to hear of a still evening 
in some lonely country scene the mournful melody 
of a funeral dirge swelling from a distance, and to 
see the train slowly moving along the landscape. 

Thus, thus, and thus, we compass round 
Thy harmless and unhaunted ground, 
And as we sing thy dirge, we will. 

The daffodill 
And other flowers lay upon 
The altar of our love, thy stone. 

Herrick. 



l68 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

There is also a solemn respect paid by the trav- 
eller to the passing funeral in these sequestered 
places ; for such spectacles, occurring among the 
quiet abodes of Nature, sink deep into the soul. 
As the mourning train approaches he pauses, un- 
covered, to let it go by ; he then follows silently in 
the rear ; sometimes quite to the grave, at other 
times for a few hundred yards, and, having paid this 
tribute of respect to the deceased, turns and resumes 
his journey. 

The rich vein of melancholy which. runs through 
the English character, and gives it some of its most 
touching and ennobling graces, is finely evidenced 
in these pathetic customs, and in the solicitude 
shown by the common people for an honored and a 
peaceful grave. The humblest peasant, whatever 
may be his lowly lot while living, is anxious that 
some little respect may be paid to his remains. Sir 
Thomas Overbury, describing the " faire and happy 
milkmaid," observes, " thus lives she, and all her 
care is, that she may die in the spring-time, to have 
store of flowers stucke upon her winding-sheet." 
The poets, too, who always breathe the feeling of a 
nation, continually advert to this fond solicitude 
about the grave. In The MaiiVs Tragedy^ by 
Beaumont and Fletcher, there is a beautiful in- 
stance of the kind describing the capricious melan- 
choly of a broken-hearted girl : 

^yhen she sees a bank 
Stuck full of flowers, she, with a sigh, will tell 
Ker servants, what a pretty place it were 
To bury lovers in; and made her maids 
Bluck 'em, and strew her over like a corse. 

The custom of decorating graves was once uni- 



RURAL FUXERALS. 1 69 

Versally prevalent : osiers were carefully bent over 
them to keep the turf uninjured, and about them 
were planted evergreens and flowers. " We adorn 
their graves," says Evelyn, in his Sylva, " with 
flowers and redolent plants, just emblems of the 
life of man, which has been compared in Holy Scrip- 
tures to those fading beauties whose roots, being 
buried in dishonor, rise ag^ain in ^rlorv," This usasfe 
has now become extremely rare "m England ; but it 
may still be met with in the churchyards of retired 
villages, among the Welsh mountains ; and I recol- 
lect an instance of it at the small town of Ruthven, 
which lies at the head of the beautiful vale of 
Clewyd. I have been told also by a friend, who 
was present at the funeral of a young girl in Gla- 
morganshire, that the female attendants had their 
aprons full of flowers, which, as soon as the body 
was interred, they stuck about the grave. 

He noticed several graves which had been dec- 
orated in the same manner. As the flowers had 
been merely stuck in the ground, and not planted, 
they had soon withered, and might be seen in vari- 
ous stales of decay ; some drooping, others quite 
perished. They were afterwards to be supplanted 
by holly, rosemary, and other evergreens, which 
on some graves had grown to great luxuriance, and 
overshadowed the tombstones. 

There was formerly a melancholy fancifulness in 
the arrangement of these rustic offerings, that had 
something in it truly poetical. The rose was some- 
times blended with the lily, to form a general 
emblem of frail mortality. "This sweet flower," 
said Evelyn, " borne on a branch set with thorns 
and accompanied with the lily, are natural hiero 



lyo THF. SKETCH-BOOK. 

glyphics of our fugitive, umbratile, anxious, and 
transitory life, whicli, mnking so fair a show for a 
time, is not yet without its thorns and crosses." 
The nature aixl color of the flowers, and of the 
ribbons with wliich they were tied, had often a par- 
ticular reference to the qualities or story of the 
deceased, or were expressive of tl j feelings of the 
mourner. In an old poem, entitled " Corydon's 
Doleful Knell," a lover specifies the decorations 
lie intends to use : 

A garland shall be framed 

l>y art and nature's skill, 
Of sundry-colored flowers, 

In token of good-will. 

And sundry-colored ribbons 

On it I will bestow ; 
But chiefly blacke and yellowe 

With her to grave shall go. 

I'll deck her tomb with flowers] 

The rarest ever seen ; 
And with my tears as showers 

I'll keep them fresh and green. 

The white rose, we are told, was planted at the 
grave of a virgin ; her chaplet was tied with white 
ribbons, in token of her spotless innocence, though 
sometimes black ribbons were intermingled, to 
bespeak the grief of the survivors. The red rose 
was occasionally used, in remembrance of such as 
had been remarkable for benevolence ; but roses 
in general were appropriated to the graves of lovers. 
Evelyn tells us that the custom was not altogether 
extinct in his time, near his dwelling in the county 
of Surrey, *' where the maiden? '^early planted and 



RURAL FUNERALS. 171 

decked the graves of their defunct sweethearts with 
rose-bushes." And Camden likewise remarks, in 
his Britivmia : " Here is also a certain custom, ob- 
served time out of mind, of planting rose-trees upon 
the graves, especially by the young men and maids 
who have lost their loves ; so that this churchyard 
is now full of them." 

When the deceased had been unhappy in their 
loves, emblems of a more gloomy character were 
used, such as the yew and cypress, and if flowers 
were strewn, they were of the most melancholy colors. 
Thus, in poems by Thomas Stanley, Esq. (published 
in 165 1), is the following stanza : 

Vet strew 
Upon my dismall grave 
Such offerings as you have, 

Forsaken cypresse and yewe ; 
For kinder flowers can take no birth 
Or growth from such unhappy earth. 

In The Maiifs Tragedy^ a pathetic little air is 
introduced, illustrative of this mode of decorating 
the funerals of females who had been disappointed 
in love : 

Lay a garland on my hearse 

Of tlie dismall yew, 
Maidens, willow branches wear, 

Say I died true. 

My love was false, but I was firm. 

From my hour of birth ; 
Upon my buried body lie 

Lightly, gentle earth. 

The natural effect of sorrow over the dead is to 
refine and elevate the mind ; and we have a proof 
of it in the purity of sentiment and the unaffected 



172 THE SKErCI!-BO0K\ 

elegance of thought which pervaded the whole of 
these funeral observances. Thus it was an especial 
precaution that none but sweet-scented evergreens 
and flowers should be employed. The intention 
seems to have been to soften the horrors of the 
tomb, to beguile the mind from brooding over the 
disgraces of perishing mortality, and to associate 
the memorv of the deceased with the most delicate 
and beautiful objects in nature. There is a dismal 
process going on in the grave, ere dust can return 
to its kindred dust, which the imagination shrinks 
from contemplating ; and we seek still to think of 
the form we have loved, with those refined associa- 
tions which it awakened when blooming before us 
in youth and beauty. '* Lay her i' the earth," says 
Laertes, of his virgin sister. 

And from her fair and unpolluted flesh 
May violets spring. 

Herrick, also, in his " Dirge of Jephtha," pours 
forth a fragrant flow of poetical thought and image, 
which in a manner embalms the dead in the recol- 
lections of the living.' 

Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice, 

And make this place all Paradise : 

May sweets grow here ! and smoke from hence 

Fat frankincense. 

Let balme and cassia send their scent 

From out thy maiden monument. 

***** 

May all shie maids at wonted hours 

Come forth to strew thy tombe with flowers ! 

May virgins, when they come \o mourn 

Male incense bum 
Upon thine altar! then return 
And leave thee sleeping in thy urn. 



RURAL FUNERALS. 1 73 

I might crowd my pages with extracts from the 
older British poets, who wrote when these rites 
were more prevalent, and delighted frequently to 
allude to them ; but I have already quoted more 
than is necessary. I cannot, however, refrain from 
giving a passage from Shakespeare, even though it 
should appear trite, which illustrates the emblemat- 
ical meanins: often conveved in these floral tributes, 
and at the same time possesses that magic of lan- 
guage and appositeness of imagery for which he 
stands pre-eminent. 

With fairest flowers, 
Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, 
I'll sweeten thy sad grave ; thou shalt not lack 
The flower that's like thy face, pale primrose ; nor 
The azured harebell like thy veins ; no, nor 
The leaf of eglantene ; whom not to slander, 
Outsweetened not thy breath. 

There is certainly something more affecting in 
these prompt and spontaneous offerings of Nature 
than in the most costly monuments of art ; the 
hand strews the flower wiiile the heart is warm, 
and the tear falls on the grave as affection is bind- 
ing the osier round the sod ; but pathos expires 
under the slow labor of the chisel, and is chilled 
among the cold conceits of sculptured marble. 

It is greatly to be regretted that a custom so 
truly elegant and touching has disappeared from 
general use, and exists onl}^ in the most remote 
and insignificant villages. But it seems as it poet- 
ical custom always shuns the walks of cultivated 
society. In proportion as people grow polite they 
cease to be poetical. They talk of poetry, but 
they have learnt to check its free impulses, to dis- 



174 THK SKETCH-BOOK. 

trust ite sallying emotions, and to supply its most 
affecting and picturesque usages by studied form 
and pompous ceremonial. Few pageants can be 
more stately and frigid than an English funeral in 
town. It is made up of show and gloomy parade ; 
mournincf carriaires, mournins: horses, mourninsf 
plumes, and hireling mourners, who make a mock- 
ery of grief. " There is a grave digged," says 
Jeremy Taylor, " and a solemn mourning, and a 
great talk in the neighborhood, and when the daies 
are finished, they shall be, and they shall be re- 
membered no more." The associate in the gay 
and crowded city is soon forgotten ; the hurrying 
succession of new intimates and new pleasures 
effaces him from our minds, and the very scenes 
and circles in which he moved are incessantly 
fluctuating. But funerals in the country are sol- 
emnly impressive. The stroke of death makes a 
wider space in the village circle, and is an awful 
event in the tranquil uniformity of rural life. The 
passing bell tolls its knell in every ear ; it steals 
with its pervading melancholy over hill and vale, 
and saddens all the landscape. 

The fixed and unchanging features of the coun- 
try also perpetuate the memory of the friend with 
whom we once enjoyed them, who was the com- 
panion of our most retired walks, and gave anima- 
tion to every lonely scene. His idea is associated 
with every charm of Nature ; we hear his voice in 
the echo which he once delighted to awaken ; his 
spirit haunts the grove which he once frequented ; 
we think of him in the wild upland solitude or 
amidst the pensive beauty of the valley. In the 
freshness of joyous morning we remember his 



RURAL FUNERALS. 175 

beaming smiles and bounding gayety ; and when 
sober evening returns witli its gathering shadows 
and subduing quiet, we call to mind many a twi- 
light hour of gentle talk and sweet-souled melan- 
choly. 

Each lonely place shall him restore, 

For him tlie tear be duly shed ; 
Beloved till life can charm no more. 
And mourn'd till pity's self be dead. 

Another cause that perpetuates the memory of 
the deceased in the country is that the grrave is 
more immediately in sight of the survivors. They 
pass it on their way to prayer ; it meets their eyes 
when their hearts are softened by the exercises of 
devotion ; they linger about it on the Sabbath, 
when the mind is disengaged from worldly cares and 
most disposed to turn aside from present pleasures 
and present loves and to sit down among the 
solemn mementos of the past. In North Wales 
the peasantry kneel and pray over the graves of 
their deceased friends for several Sundays after the 
interment ; and where the tender rite of strewing 
and planting fiowers is still practised, it is always 
renewed on Easter, Whitsuntide, and other festi- 
vals, wiien the season brings the companion of 
fo; r festivit}^ more vividly to mind. It is also 
inva; i ;bly performed by the nearest relatives and 
friends ; no menials nor hirelings are employed, 
and if a neighbor yields assistance, it would be 
deemed an insult to offer compensation. 

I have dwelt upon this beautiful rural custom, 
because as it is one of the last, so is it one of the 
holiest, offices of love. The grave is the ordeal of 
true affection. It is there that the divine passion 



176 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

of the soul manifests its superiority to the instinctive 
impulse of mere animal attachment. The latter 
must be continually refreshed and kept alive by the 
presence of its object, but the love that is seated 
in the soul can live on long remembrance. The 
mere inclinations of sense languish and decline with 
the charms which excited tliem, and turn with shud- 
dering disgust from the dismal precincts of the 
tomb ; but it is thence that truly spiritual affection 
rises, purified from every sensual desire, and re- 
turns, like a holy flame, to illumine and sanctify the 
heart of the survivor. 

The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from 
which we refuse to be divorced. Every other 
wound we seek to heal, every other affliction to 
forget ; but this wound w^e consider it a duty to 
keep open, this affl'ction we cherish and brood 
over in solitude. Where is the mother who would 
willingly forget the infant that perished like a 
blossom from her arms though every recollection 
is a pang ? Where is the child that would willingly 
forget the most tender of parents, though to re- 
memb^ be but to lament ? Who, even in the hour 
of agony, would forget the friend over whom he 
mourns .'' Who, even when the tomb is closing 
upon the remains of her he most loved, when he 
feels his heart, as it were, crushed in the closing 
of its portal, would accept of consolation that 
must be bought by forgetfulness ? No, the love 
which survives the tomb is one of the noblest at- 
tributes of the soul. If it has its woes, it has like- 
wise its delights ; and when the overwhelming burst 
of grief is calmed into the gentle tear of recollec- 
tion, when the sudden anguish and the convulsive 
agony over the present ruins of all that we most 



RURAL FUNERALS. 



77 



loved is softened away into pensive meditation on 
all that it was in the days of its loveliness, who 
would root out such a sorrow from the heart ? 
Though it may sometimes throw a passing cloud 
over the bright hour of gayety, or spread a deeper 
sadness over the hour of gloom, yet who would 
exchange it even for the song of pleasure or the 
burst of revelry ? No, there is a voice from the 
tomb sweeter than song. There is a remembrance 
of the dead to which we turn even from the charms 
of the living. Oh, the grave ! the grave ! It 
buries every error, covers every defect, extin- 
guishes every resentment ! From its peaceful 
bosom spring none but fond regrets and tender 
recollections. Who can look down upon the grave 
even of an enemy, and not feel a compunctious throb 
that he should ever have warred with the poor 
handful of earth that lies mouldering before him ? 
But the grave of those we loved — what a place 
for meditation ! There it is that we call up in long 
review the whole history of virtue and gentleness. 
and the thousand endearments lavished upon us 
almost unheeded in the daily intercourse of in- 
timacy ; there it is that we dwell upon the tender- 
ness, the solemn, awful tenderness, of the parting 
scene. The bed of death, with all its stifled griefs 
— its noiseless attendance — its mute, watchful as- 
siduities. The last testimonies of expiring love ! 
The feeble, fluttering, thrilling — oh, how thrilling ! 
— pressure of the hand ! The faint, faltering ac- 
cents, struggling in death to give one more assur- 
ance of affection ! The last fond look of the glazing 
eye, turning upon us even from the threshold of 
existence! 

T2 



178 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

Ay, go to the grave of buried love and meditate ! 
There settle the account with thy conscience for 
every past benefit unrequited — every past endear- 
ment unregarded, of that departed being who can 
never — never — never return to be soothed by thy 
contrition ! 

If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow 
to the soul or a furrow to the silvered brow of an 
affectionate parent ; if thou art a husband, and hast 
ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its whole 
happiness in thy arms to doubt one moment of 
thy kindness or thy truth ; if thou art a friend, and 
hast ever wronged, in thought or word or deed, the 
spirit that generously confided in thee; if thou art 
a lover, and hast ever given one unmerited pang to 
that true heart which now lies cold and still beneath 
thy feet, — then be sure that every unkind look, every 
ungracious word, every ungentle action will come 
thronging back upon thy memory and knocking 
dolefully at thy soul : then be sure that thou wilt 
lie down sorrov/ing and repentant on the grave, and 
utter the unheard groan and pour the unavailing 
tear, more deep, more bitter because unheard and 
unavailing. 

Then weave thy chaplet of flowers and strew 
the beauties of Nature about the grave ; console thy 
broken spirit, if thou canst, with these tender yet 
futile tributes of regret ; but take warning by the 
bitterness of this thy contrite affliction over the 
dead, and henceforth be more faithful and affec- 
tionate in the discharge of thy duties to the living. 



In writing the preceding article it was not in- 
tended to give a full detail of the funeral customs 



RURAL FUNERALS. 



179 



of the English peasantry, but merely to furnish a 
few hints and quotations illustrative of particular 
rites, to be appended, by way of note, to another 
paper, which has been withheld. The article swelled 
insensibly into its present form, and this is mentioned 
as an apology for so brief and casual a notice 
of these usages after they have been amply and 
learnedly investigated in other works. 

I must observe, also, that I am well aware that 
this custom of adorning graves with flowers pre- 
vails in other countries besides England. Indeed, 
in some it is much more general, and is observed 
even by the rich and fashionable ; but it is then 
apt to lose its simplicity and to degenerate into 
affectation. Bright, in his travels in Lower Hun- 
gary, tells of monuments of marble and recesses 
formed for retirement, with seats placed among 
bowers of greenhouse plants, and that the graves 
generally are covered with the gayest flowers of 
the season. He gives a casual picture of filial 
piety which I cannot but transcribe; for I trust it is 
as useful as it is delightful to illustrate the amiable 
virtues of the sex. ''When I was at Berlin," says 
he, " I followed the celebrated Iffland to the grave. 
Mingled with some pomp you might trace much 
real feeling. In the midst of the ceremony my at- 
tention was attracted by a young woman who stood 
on a mound of earth newly covered with turf, 
which she anxiously protected from the feet of 
the passing crowd. It was the tomb of her parent; 
and the figure of this affectionate daughter pre- 
sented a monument more striking than the most 
costly work of art." 

I will barely add an instance of sepulchral deco- 



l8o THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

ration that I once met with among the mountains 
of Switzerland. It was at the village of Gersau, 
which stands on the borders of the Lake of Lucerne, 
at the foot of Mount Rigi. It was once the capital 
of a miniature republic shut up between the Alps 
and the lake, and accessible on the land side only 
by footpaths. The whole force of the republic did 
not exceed six hundred fighting men, and a few 
miles of circumference, scooped out as it were 
from the bosom of the mountains, comorised its 
territory. The village of Gersau seemed separated 
from the rest of the world, and retained the golden 
simplicity of a purer age. It had a small church, 
with a burying-ground adjoining. At the heads of 
the graves were placed crosses of wood or iron. 
On some were affixed miniatures, rudely executed, 
but evidently attempts at likenesses of the de- 
ceased. On the crosses were hung chaplets of 
flowers, some withering, others fresh, as if occa- 
sionally renewed. I paused with interest at this 
scene : I felt that I was at the source of poetical 
■description, for these were the beautiful but unaf- 
fected offerings of the heart which poets are fain 
to record. In a gayer and more populous place I 
should have suspected them to liave been suggested 
by factitious sentnnent derived from books ; but 
the good people of Gersau knew little of books ; 
there was not a novel nor a love-poem in the vil- 
lage, and I question whether any peasant of the 
place dreamt, while he was twining a fresh chaplet 
for the grave of his mistress, that he was fulfilling 
one of the most fanciful rites of poetical devotion, 
and that he was practically a poet. 



aiE INN KI TCHEN, \ 8 1 



THE INN KITCHEN. 

Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn ? . 

Falstaff. 

During a journey that I once made through the 
Netherlands, I had arrived one evening at the 
Fomvie if Ot\ the principal inn of a small Flemish 
village. It was after the hour of XhQ table d'/i of e, 
so that I was obliged to make a solitary supper 
from the relics of its ampler board. The weather 
was chilly ; I was seated alone in one end of a great 
gloomy dining-room, and, my repast being over, I 
had the prospect before me of a long dull evening, 
without any visible means of enlivening it. I sum- 
moned mine host and requested something to read ; 
he brought me the whole literary stock of his house- 
hold, a Dutch family Bible, an almanac in the same 
language, and a number of old Paris newspapers. 
As I sat dozing over one of the latter, reading old 
news and stale criticisms, my ear was now and then 
struck with bursts of laughter which seemed to pro- 
ceed from the kitchen. Every one that has trav- 
elled on the Continent must know how favorite a 
resort the kitchen of a country inn is to the middle 
and inferior order of travellers, particularly in that 
equivocal kind of weather when a fire becomes 
agreeable toward evening*. I threw aside the news- 
paper and explored my way to the kitchen, to take 
a peep at the group that appeared to be so merry. 



l82 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

It was composed partly of travellers who had ar- 
rived some hoars before in a diligence, and partly 
of the usual attendants and hangers-on of inns. 
They were seated round a great burnished stove, 
that might have been mistaken for an altar at 
which they were worshipping. It was covered with 
various kitchen vessels of resplendent brightness, 
among which steamed and hissed a huge copper 
tea-kettle. A large lamp threw a strong mass of 
light upon the group, bringing out many odd feat- 
ures in strong relief. Its yellow rays partially illu- 
mined the spacious kitchen, dying duskily away 
into remote corners, except where they settled in 
mellow radiance on the broad side of a flitch of 
bacon or were reflected back from well-scoured 
utensils that gleamed from the midst of obscurity. 
A strapping Flemish lass, with long golden pen- 
dants in her ears and a necklace with a golden 
heart suspended to it, was the presiding priestess of 
the temple. 

Many of the company were furnished with pipes, 
and most of them with some kind of evening pota- 
tion. I found their mirth was occasioned by an- 
ecdotes which a little swarthy Frenchman, with a 
dry weazen face and large whiskers, was giving of 
his love-adventures ; at the end of each of which 
there was one of those bursts of honest unceremo- 
nious laugliter in which a man indulges in that 
temple of true liberty, an inn. 

As I had no better mode of getting through a 
tedious blustering evening, I took my seat near the 
stove, and listened to a variety of travellers' tales, 
some very extravagant and most very dull. All of 
them, however, have f.ided from mv treacherous 



THE INN KITCHEN. 183 

memory except one, which I will endeavor to relate. 
I fear, however, it derived its chief zest from the 
manner in which it was told, ajid the peculiar air 
and appearance of the narrator. He was a cor- 
pulent old Swiss, who had the look of a veteran 
traveller. He was dressed in a tarnished green 
travelling-jacket, with a broad belt round his waist, 
and a pair of overalls with buttons from the hips to 
the ankles. He was of a full rubicund countenance, 
with a double chin, aquiline nose, and a pleasant 
twinkling eye. His hair was light, and curled from 
under an old green velvet travelling-cap stuck on 
one side of his head. He was interrupted more 
than once by the arrival of guests or the remarks 
of his auditors, and paused now and then to 
replenish his pipe ; at which times he had generally 
a roguish leer and a sly joke for the buxom 
kitchen-maid. 

I wish my readers could imagine the old fellow 
lolling in a huge arm-chair, one arm a-kimbo, the 
other holding a curiously twisted tobacco-pipe 
formed of genuine ecuvic dc ine)\ decorated with 
silver chain and silken tassel, his head cocked 
on one side, and a whimsical cut of the eye occa- 
sionally as he related the following story. 



l84 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 
A traveller's tale.* 

He that supper for is dight, 

He lyes full cold, I trow, this night ! 

Yestreen to chamber I him led, 

This night Gray-steel has made his bed! 

Sir Eger, Sir Grahame, and Sir Gray-Steel. 

On the summit of one of the heights of the 
Odenwald, a wild and romantic tract of Upper Ger- 
many that lies not far from the confluence of the 
Main and the Rhine, there stood many, many years 
since the castle of the Baron Von Landshort. It 
is now quite fallen to decay, and almost buried 
amon"- beech trees and dark lirs ; above which, 
however, its old watch-tower may still be seen 
struggling, like the former possessor I have men- 
tioned, to carry a high head and look down upon 
the neighboring country. 

The baron was a dry branch of the great family 
of Katzenellenbogen,t and inherited the relics of 
the property and all the pride, of his ancestors. 

* The erudite reader, well versed in good-for-nothing lore, 
will perceive that the above Tale must have been suggested 
to the old Swiss by a little French anecdote, a circum- 
stance said to have taken place in Paris. 

t /. e.. Cat's Elbow' — the name of a family of those parts, 
and very powerful in former times. The appellation, we are 
told, was given in compliment to a peerless dame of the 
family, celebrated for a fine arm. 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 185 

Though the warlike disposition of his predecessors 
had mucli impaired the family possessions, yet the 
baron still endeavored to keep up some show of 
former state. The times were peaceable, and the 
German nobles in general had abandoned their 
inconvenient old castles, perched like eagles' nests 
among the mountains, and had built more conven- 
ient residences in the valleys ; still, the baron re- 
mained proudly drawn up in his little fortress, 
cherishing with hereditary inveteracy all the old 
family feuds, so that he was on ill terms with soma 
of his nearest neighbors, on account of disputes 
that had happened between their great-great-grand- 
fathers. 

The baron had but one child, a daughter, but 
Nature, when she grants but one child, always com- 
pensates by making it a prodigy; and so it was 
with the daughter of the baron. All the nurses, 
gossips, and country cousins assured her fp.ther 
that she had not her equal for beauty in all Ger- 
many ; and who should know better than they? 
She had, moreover, been brought up with great 
care under the superintendence of two maiden 
aunts, who had spent some years of their early life 
at one of the little German courts, and were skilled 
in all branches of knowledge necessary to the 
education of a fine lady. Under their instructions 
she became a miracle of accomplishments. By 
the time she was eighteen she could embroider 
to admiration, and had worked whole histories of 
the saints in tapestry with such strength of ex- 
pression in their countenances that they looked 
like so many souls in purgatory. She could read 
without great difficulty, and had spelled her way 



1 86 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

through several Church legends and almost all 
the chivalric wonders of the HehlcnbucJi. She had 
even made considerable proficiency in writing ; could 
sign her own name without missing a letter, and so 
legibly that her aunts could read it without spec- 
tacles. She excelled in making little elegant good- 
for-nothing, lady-like knicknacks of all kinds, was 
versed in the most abstruse dancing of the da)-, 
played a number of airs on the harp and guitar, 
and knew all the tender ballads of the Minne- 
lieders by heart. 

Her aunts, too, having been great flirts and co- 
quettes in their younger days, were admirably cal- 
culated to be vigilant guardians and strict censors 
of the conduct of their niece ; for there is no 
duenna so rigidly prudent and inexorably decorous 
as a superannuated coquette. She was rarely 
suffered out of their sight ; never went beyond the 
domains of the castle unless well attended, or rather 
well watched ; had continual lectures read to her 
about strict decorum and implicit obedience ; and, 
as to the men — pah ! — she was taught to hold them 
at such a distance and in such absolute distrust 
that, unless properly authorized, she would not 
have cast a glance upon the handsomest cavalier 
in the world — no, not if he were even dying at 
her feet. 

The good effects of this system were w^onderfully 
apparent. The young lady was a pattern of docility 
and correctness. While others were wasting their 
sweetness in the glare of the w^orld, and liable to be 
plucked and thrown aside by every hand, she was 
coyly blooming into fresh and lovely womanhood 
under the protection of those immaculate spinsters. 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 187 

like a rosebud blushing forth among guardian 
thorns. Her aunts looked upon her with pride and 
exultation, and vaunted that, though all the other 
young ladies in the world might go astray, yet, 
thank Heaven, nothing of the kind could happen 
to the heiress of Katzenellenbogen. 

But, however scantily the Baron Von Landshort 
might be provided with children, his household was 
by no means a small one; for Providence had en- 
riched him with abundance of poor relations. They, 
one and all, possessed the affectionate disposition 
common to humble relatives — were wonderfully 
attached to the baron, and took every possible 
occasion to come in swarms and enliven the castle. 
All family festivals vvere commemorated by these 
good people at the baron's expense ; and when they 
were filled with good cheer they would declare 
that there was nothing on earth so delightful as 
these family meetings, these jubilees of the heart. 

The baron, though a small man, had a large soul, 
and it swelled with satisfaction at the consciousness 
of being the greatest man in the little world about 
him. He loved to tell long stories about the stark 
old warriors whose portraits looked grimly down 
from the walls around, and he found no listeners 
equal to those who fed at his expense. He \yas 
much given to the marvellous and a firm believer 
in all those supernatural tales with which every 
mountain and valley in Germany abounds. The 
faith of his guests exceeded even his own : they 
listened to every tale of wonder with open eyes and 
mouth, and never failed to be astonished, even 
though repeated for the hundredth time. Thus 
lived the Baron Von Landshort, the oracle of his 



1 88 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

table, the absolute monarch of his little territory, and 
happy, above all things, iw the persuasion that he 
was the wisest man of the age. 

At the time of which my story treats there was 
a great family gathering at the castle on an affair 
of the utmost importance : it was to receive the 
destined bridegroom of the baron's daughter. A 
negotiation had been carried on between the father 
and an old nobleman of Bavaria to unite the 
dignity of their houses by the marriage of their 
children. The preliminaries had been conducted 
with proper punctilio. The young people were 
betrothed without seeing each other, and the time 
was appointed for the marriage ceremony. The 
young Count Von Altenburghad been recalled from 
the army for the purpose, and w-as actually on his 
way to the baron's to receive his bride. Missives 
had even been received from him from Wurtzburg, 
where he was accidentally detained, mentioning the 
day and hour when he might be expected to arrive. 

The castle was in a tumult of preparation to give 
him a suitable w'elcome. The fair bride had been 
decked out with uncommon care. The two aunts 
bad superintended her toilet, and quarrelled the 
whole morning about every article of her dress. 
The young lady had taken advantage of their con- 
test to follow the bent of her own taste ; and for- 
tunately it was a good one. She looked as lovely 
as youthful bridegroom could desire, and the 
flutter of expectation heightened the lustre of her 
charms. 

The suffusions that mantled her face and neck, 
the gentle heaving of the bosom, the eye now and 
then lost in reverie, all betrayed the soft tumult 



THE SPLC'I'KE BiaDEGROOM 189 

that was TOinc: on in her little heart. The aunts 
were continually hovering around her, for maiden 
aunts are apt to take great interest in affairs of this 
nature. They were giving her a world of staid 
counsel how to deport herself, what to say, and in 
what manner to receive the expected lover. 

The baron was no less busied in preparations. 
He had, in truth, nothing exactly to do ; but he 
was naturally a fuming, bustling little man, and 
could not remain passive when all the world was in 
a hurry. He worried from top to bottom of the 
castle with an air of infinite anxiety ; he continually 
called the servants from their work to exhort them 
to be diligent : and buzzed about everv hall and 
chamber, as idly restless and importunate as a 
blue-bottle fly on a warm summer's day. 

In the mean time the fatted calf had been killed ; 
the forests had rung with the clamor of the hunts- 
men ; the kitchen was crowded with good cheer ; 
the cellars had yielded up whole oceans of Rhcin- 
umn ci.v\dFerne-7C'ci/i ; and even the great Heidelberg 
tun had been laid under contribution. Everything 
was ready to receive the distinguished guest with 
Sans und Brans in the true spirit of German 
hospitality ; but the guest delayed to make his 
appearance. Hour rolled after hour. The sun, 
that had poured his downward rays upon the rich 
forest of the Odenwald, now just gleamed along the 
summits of the mountains. The baron mounted 
the highest tower and strained his eyes in hopes 
of catching a distant sight of the count and his 
attendants. Once he thought he beheld them ; the 
sound of horns came floating from the valley, pro- 
longed by the mountain-echoes. A number of horse- 



I go THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

men were seen far below slowly advancing along 
the road ; but when they had nearly reached the 
foot of the mountain they suddenly struck off in a 
different direction. The last ray of sunshine de- 
parted, the bats began to flit by in the twilight, 
the road grew dimmer and dimmer to the view, 
and nothing appeared stirring in it but now and 
then a peasant lagging homeward from his labor. 

While the old castle of Landshort was in this 
state of perplexity a very interesting scene was 
transacting in a different part of the Odenwald. 

The young Count Von Altenburg was tranquilly 
pursuing his route in that sober jog-trot way in 
which a man travels toward matrimony when his 
friends have taken all the trouble and uncertainty 
of courtship off his hands and a bride is waiting 
for him as certainly as a dinner at the end of his 
journey. He had encountered at Wurtzburg a 
youthful companion-in-arms with whom he had 
seen some service on the frontiers — Herman Von 
Starkenfaust, one of the stoutest hands and 
worthiest hearts of German chivalry — who was now 
returning from the army. His father's castle was 
not far distant from the old fortress of Landshort, 
although an hereditary feud rendered the families 
hostile and strangers to each other. 

In the warm-hearted moment of recognition the 
young friends related all their past adventures and 
fortunes, and the count gave the whole history of 
his intended nuptials with a young lady whom he 
had never seen, but of whose charms he had re- 
ceived the most enrapturing descriptions. 

As the route of the friends lay in the same direc- 
tion, they agreed to perform the rest of their journey 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 191 

together, and that they might do it the more leisure- 
ly, set off from Wurtzburg at an early hour, the count 
having given directions for his retinue to follow and 
overtake him. 

They beguiled their wayfaring with recollections 
of their military scenes and adventures ; but the 
count was apt to be a little tedious now and then 
about the reputed charms of his bride and the 
felicity that awaited him. 

In this way they had entered among the mount- 
ains of the Odenwald, and were traversing one of 
its most lonely and thickly wood: ■ passes. It is 
well known that the forests of Germany have always 
been as much infested by robbers as its castles 
by spectres ; and at this time the former were 
particularly numerous, from the hordes of disband- 
ed soldiers wanderinrj: about the countrv. It will 
not appear extraordinary, therefore, that the cava- 
liers were attacked by a gang of these stragglers, 
in the midst of the forest. They defended them- 
selves with bravery, but were nearly overpowered 
when the count's retinue arrived to their assistance. 
At sight of them the robbers fled, but not until the 
count had received a mortal wound. He was 
slowly and carefully conveyed back to the city of 
Wurtzburg, and a friar summoned from a neigh- 
boring convent who was famous for his skill in 
administering to both soul and body ; but half of 
his skill was superfluous ; the moments of the 
unfortunate count were numbered. 

With his dying breath he entreated his friend to 
repair instantly to the castle of Landshort and ex- 
plain the fatal cause of his not keeping his appoint- 
ment with his bride. Though not the most ardent 



192 1HE SKETCH-BOOK. 

of lovers, he was one of the most punctilious of 
men, and appeared earnestly solicitous that his 
mission should be speedily and courteously exe- 
cuted. " Unless this is done," said he, " I shall 
not sleep quietly in my grave. " He repeated 
these last words with peculiar solemnity. A re- 
quest at a moment so impressive admitted no hesi- 
tation. Starkenfaust endeavored to soothe him to 
calmness, promised faithfully to execute his wish, 
and gave him his hand in solemn pledge. The 
dying man pressed it in acknowledgment, but soon 
lapsed into delirium — raved about his bride, his en- 
gagements, his plighted word — ordered his horse, 
that he might ride to the castle of Landshort, and 
expired in the fancied act of« vaulting into the 
laddie. 

Starkenfaust bestowed a sigh and a soldier's 
tear on the untimely fate of his comrade and 
then pondered on the awkward mission he had 
undertaken. His Heart was heavy and his head 
perplexed ; for he was to present himself an un- 
bidden guest among hostile people, and to damp 
their festivity with tidings fatal to their hopes. 
Still, there were certain whisperings of curiosity in 
his bosom to see this far-famed beauty of Katzenel- 
lenbogen, so cautiously shut up from the world ; 
for he was a passionate admirer of the sex, and 
there was a dash of eccentricity and enterprise in 
his character that made him fond of all singular 
adventure. 

Previous to his departure he made all due 
arrangements with the holy fraternity of the con- 
vent for the funeral solemnities of his friend, who 
was to be buried in the cathedral of Wurt^^burg 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 193: 

near some of his illustrious relatives, and the ■ 
wourning retinue of the count took charge of his- 
remains. 

It is now high time that we should return to the 
ancient family of Katzeneilenbogen, who were im- 
patient for their guest, and still more for their 
dinner, and to the worthy little baron, whom we 
left airing himself on the watch-tower. 

Night closed in, but still no guest arrived. The 
baron descended from the tower in despair. The 
banquet, which had been delayed from hour to 
hour, could no longer be postponed. The meats 
were already overdone, the cook in an agony, and 
the whole household had the look of a garrison 
that had been reduced by famine. The baron was 
obliged reluctantly to give orders for the feast with- 
out the presence of the guest. All were seated at 
table, and just on the point of commencing, when 
the sound of a horn from without the gate gave 
notice of the approach of a stranger. Another long 
blast filled the old courts of the castle with its 
echoes, and was answered by the warder from the 
walls. The baron hastened to receive his future 
son-in-law. 

The drawbridge had been let down, and the 
stranger was before the gate. He was a tall gal- 
lant cavalier, mounted on a black steed. His 
countenance was pale, but he had a beaming, 
romantic eye and an air of stately melancholy. 
The baron \vas a little mortified that he should 
have come in this simple, solitary style. His 
dignity for a moment was ruffled, and he felt dis- 
posed to consider it a want of proper respect for 
the important occasion and the important family 

13 



194 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

with which he was to be connected. He pacified 
Siimself, however, with the conckision that it must 
iiave been youthful impatience which had induced 
liim thus to spur on sooner than his attendants. 

*' I am sorry," said the stranger, " to break in 
upon you thus unseasonably " 

Here the baron interrupted him with a world of 
compliments and greetings, for, to tell the truth, 
he prided himself upon his courtesy and elo- 
quence. The stranger attempted once or twice to 
stem the torrent of words, but in vain, so he 
J^owed his head and suffered it to flow on. By 
the time the baron had come to a pause they 
had reached the inner court of the castle, and the 
stranger was again about to speak, when he was 
•once more interrupted by the appearance of the 
ifemale part of the family, leading forth the shrink- 
ing and blushing bride. He gazed on her for a 
moment as one entranced ; it seemed as if his 
whole soul beamed forth in the gaze and rested 
upon that lovely form. One of the maiden aunts 
whispered something in her ear ; she made an 
effort to speak ; her moist blue eye was timidly 
raised, gave a shy glance of inquiry on the stranger, 
and was cast again to the ground. The words died 
away, but there was a sweet smile playing about 
her lips, and a soft dimpling of the cheek that 
showed her glance had not been unsatisfactory. It 
was impossible for a girl of the fond age of eight- 
een, highly predisposed for love and matrimony, 
not to be pleased with so gallant a cavalier. 

The late hour at which the guest had arrived 
left no time for parley. The baron was peremp- 
tory, and deferred all particular conversation until 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 



9 b 



the morning, and led the way to the untasted ban- 
quet. 

It was served up in the great hall of the castle. 
Around the walls hung the hard-favored portraits 
of the heroes of the house of Katzenellenbogen, 
and the trophies which they had gained in the field 
and in the chase. Hacked corselets, splintered 
jousting-spears, and tattered banners were mingled 
with the spoils of sylvan warfare : the jaws of the 
ivolf and the tusks of the boar grinned horribly 
among crossbows and battle-axes, and a huge pair 
of antlers branched immediately over the head of 
the youthful bridegroom. 

The cavalier took but little notice of the com- 
pany or the entertainment. He scarcely tasted the 
banquet, but seemed absorbed in admiration of his 
bride. He conversed in a low tone that could not 
be overheard, for the language of love is never 
loud ; but where is the female ear so dull that it 
cannot catch the softest whisper of the lover ? 
There was a mingled tenderness and gravity in his 
manner that appeared to have a powerful effect 
upon the young lady. Her color came and went 
as she listened with deep attention. Now and then 
she made some blushing reply, and when his eye 
was turned away she would steal a sidelong glance 
at his romantic countenance, and heave a gentle 
sigh of tender happiness. It was evident that the 
young couple were completely enamored. The 
aunts, who were deeply versed in the mysteries of 
the heart, declared that they had fallen in love with 
each other at first sight. 

The feast went on merrily, or at least noisily, for 
the guests were all blessed with those keen appe- 



196 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

tites that attend upon light purses and mountain- 
air. The baron told his best and longest stories, 
and never had he told them so well or with such 
great effect. If there was anything marvellous, his 
auditors were lost in astonishment ; and if anything 
facetious, they were sure to laugh exactly in the 
right place. The baron, it is true, like most great 
men, was too dignified to utter any joke but a dull 
one ; it was always enforced, however, by a bumper 
of excellent Hockheimer, and even a dull joke at 
one's own table, served up with jolly old wine, is 
irresistible. Many good things were said by poorer 
and keener wits that would not bear repeating, ex- 
cept on similar occasions ; many sly speeches 
whispered in ladies' ears that almost convulsed 
them with suppressed laughter; and a song or two 
roared out by a poor but merry and broad-faced 
cousin of the baron that absolutely made the 
maiden aunts hold up their fans. 

Amidst all this revelry the stranger guest main- 
tained a most singular and unseasonable gravity. 
His countenance assumed a deeper cast of dejec- 
tion as the evening advanced, and, strange as it 
may appear, even the. baron's jokes seemed only to 
render him the more melancholy. At times he was 
lost in thought, and at times there was a perturbed 
and restless wandering of the eye that bespoke a 
mind but ill at ease. His conversations with the 
bride became more and more earnest and mysteri- 
ous. Lowering clouds began to steal over the fair 
serenity of her brow, and tremors to run through 
her tender frame. 

All this could not escape the notice of the com- 
pany. Their gayety was chilled by the unaccount- 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 197 

able gloom of the bridegroom ; their spirits were 
infected ; whispers and glances were interchanged, 
accompanied by shrugs and dubious shakes of the 
head. The song and the laugh grew less and less 
frequent : there were dreary pauses in the conver- 
sation, which were at length succeeded by wild 
tales and supernatural legends. One dismal story 
produced another still more dismal, and the baron 
nearly frightened some of the ladies into hysterics 
with the history of the goblin horseman that car- 
ried nwny the fair Leonora — a dreadful story which 
has since been put into excellent verse, and is read 
and believed by all the world. 

The bridegroom listened to this tale with profound 
attention. He kept his eyes steadil}' fixed on the 
baron, and, as the story drew to a close, began 
gradually to rise from his seat, growing taller and 
taller, until in the baron's entranced eve he seemed 
almost to tower into a giant. The moment the 
tale was hnished he heaved a deep sigh and took 
a solemn farewell of the company. They were all 
amazement. The baron was perfectly thunder- 
struck, 

" What ! going to leave the castle at midnight ? 
Why, everything was prepared for his reception ; a 
chamber was ready for him if he wished to retire." 

The stranger shook his head 'mournfully and 
mysteriously : " I must lay my head in a different 
chamber to-night," 

There was something in this repl}^ and the tone 
in which it was uttered that made the baron's 
heart misgive him ; but he rallied his forces and 
repeated his hospitable entreaties. 

The stranger shook his head silently, but posi- 



198 THE SKETCH-BOCK. 

tively, at every offer, and, waving his farewell tc 
the company, stalked slowly out of the hall. The 
maiden aunts were absolutely petrified ; the bride 
hung her head and a tear stole to her eye. 

The baron followed the stranger to the great 
court of the castle, where the black charger stood 
pawing the earth and snorting with impatience. 
When they had reached the portal, whose deep 
archway was dimly lighted by a cresset, the stranger 
paused, and addressed the baron in a hollow tone 
of voice, which the vauliv^d roof rendered still more 
sepulchral. 

"Now that we ^-re alone," said he, "I will 
impart to you the r<iason of my going. I have a 
solemn, an indispt-asable engagement " 

" W'h}^," said th j baron, " cannot you send some 
one in your place ? " 

" It admits of 1,0 substitute — I must attend it in 
person ; I must away to Wurtzburg cathedral " 

"Ay," said the baron, plucking up spirit, "but 
not until to-morrow — to-morrow you shall take your 
bride there." 

" No ! no ! " replied the stranger, with tenfold 
solemnit)^, " my engagement is with no bride — the 
worms ! the worms expect me ! I am a dead man 
— I have been slain by robbers — my body lies at 
Wurtzburg — at rtiidnjght I am to be buried — the 
grave is waiting for me — I must keep my appoint- 
ment ! " 

He sprang on his black charger, dashed over 
the drawbridge, ana the clattering of his horse's 
hoofs was lost in the whistling of the night blast. 

The baron returnrsd to the hall in the utmost 
consternation, and related what had passed. Two 



THE SPECTRE DRIDEGKOOM. 199 

ladies fainted outright, others sickened at tlie idea 
of having banqueted with a spectre. It was the 
opinion of some that this might be the wild hunts- 
man, famous in German legend. Some talked of 
mountain-sprites, of wood-demons, and of other 
supernatural beings with which the good people of 
Germany have been so grievously harassed since 
time immemorial. One of tii^ poor relations ven- 
tured to suggest that it might be some sportive eva- 
sion of the young cavalier, and that the very gloom- 
iness of the caprice seemed to accord with so mel- 
ancholy a personage. This, hov/cver, drew on him 
the indignation of the whole company, and espe- 
cially of the baron, who looked upon him as little 
better than an infidel ; so that he was fain to abjure 
his heresy as speedily as possible and come into 
the faith of the true believerSo 

But, whatever may have been the doubts enter- 
tained, tliey were completely put to an end by the 
arrival next day of regular missives confirming 
the intelligence of the young count's murder and 
his interment in Wurtzburg cathedral. 

The dismay at the castle may well be imagined. 
The baron shut himself up in his chamber. The 
guests, who had come to rejoice with him, could 
not think of abandoning him in his distress. They 
wandered about the courts or collected in groups 
in the hall, shaking their heads and shrugging 
their shoulders at the troubles of so good a man, 
and sat longer than ever at table, and ate and 
drank more stoutly than ever, by way of keeping 
up their spirits. But the situation of the widowed 
bride was the most pitiable. To have lost a hus- 
band before she had -ven embraced him — and 



2 00 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

such a husband ! If the very spectre could be so 
gracious and noble, what must have been the 
living man ? She filled the house with lamenta- 
tions. 

On the night of the second day of her widow- 
hood she had retired to her chamber, accompanied 
by one of her aunts, who insisted on sleeping with 
her. The aunt, who was one of the best tellers of 
ghost-stories in all Germany, had just been re- 
counting one of her longest, and had fallen asleep 
in the very midst of it. The chamber was remote 
and overlooked a small garden. The niece lay 
pensively gazing at the beams of the ri-^ing moon 
as they trembled on the leaves of an aspen tree be- 
fore the lattice. The castle clock had just tolled mid' 
night when a soft strain of music stole up from the 
garden. She rose hastily from her bed and stepped 
lightly to the window. A tall figure stood among 
the shadows of the trees. As it raised its head a 
beam of moonlight fell upon the countenance. 
Heaven and earth ! she beheld the Spectre Bride- 
groom ! A loud shriek at that moment burst upon 
her ear, and her aunt, who had been awakened by 
the music and had followed her silently to the 
window, fell into her arms. When she looked 
again the spectre had disappeared. 

Of the two females, the aunt now required the 
most soothing, for she was perfectly beside herself 
with terror. As to the young lady, there was some- 
thing even in the spectre of her lover that seemed 
endearing. There was still the semblance of manly 
beauty, and, though the shadow of a man is but little 
calculated to satisfy the affections of a lovesick 
girl, yet where the substance is not to be had even 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 201 

that is consoling. Tlie aunt declared she would 
never sleep in that chamber again ; the niece, for 
once, was refractory, and declared as strongly that 
she would sleep in no other in the castle : the con- 
sequence was, that she had to sleep in it alone ; 
but she drew a promise from her aunt not to relate 
the story of the spectre, lest she should be denied 
the only melancholy pleasure left her on earth — that 
of inhabiting the chamber over which the guardian 
shade of her lover kept its nightly vigils. 

How long the good old lady would have observed 
this promise is uncertain, for she dearly loved to 
talk of the marvellous, and there is a triumph in 
being the first to tell a frightful story ; it is, how- 
over, still quoted in the neighborhood as a memo- 
rable instance of female secrecy that she kept it to 
herself for a whole week, when she was suddenly 
absolved from all further restraint by intelligence 
brought to the breakfast-table one morning that the 
young lady was not to be found. Her room was 
empty — the bed had not been slept in — the window 
was open and the bird had flown ! 

The astonishment and concern with which the 
intelligence was received can only be imagined by 
those who have witnessed the agitation which the 
mishaps of a great man cause among his friends. 
Even the poor relations paused for a moment from 
the indefatigable labors of the trencher, when the 
aunt, who had at first been struck speechless, 
wrung her hands and shrieked out, " The goblin ! 
the goblin ! she's carried away by the goblin ! " 

In a few words she related the fearful scene of 
the garden, and concluded that the spectre must 
have carried off his bride. Two of the domestics 



202 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

corroborated the opinion, for tliey had heard the 
chittering of a horse's hoofs down the mountain 
about midnight, and had no doubt that it was the 
spectre on his black charger bearing her away to 
the tomb. All present were struck with the direful 
probability for events of the kind are extremely 
common in Germany, as many well-authenticated 
histories bear witness. 

What a lamentable situation was that of the 
poor baron ! What a heartrending dilemma for a 
fond father and a member of the great family of 
Katzenellenbogen ! His only daughter had either 
been rapt away to the grave, or he was to have 
some wood-demon for a son-in-law, and perchance 
a troop of goblin grandchildren. As usual, he was 
completely bewildered, and all the castle in an up- 
roar. The men were ordered to take horse and 
scour every road and path and glen of the Oden- 
wald. The baron himself had just drawn on his 
jack-boots, girded on his sword, and was about to 
mount his steed to sally forth on the doubtful 
quest, when he was brought to a pause by a new 
apparition. A lady was seen approaching the 
castle mounted on a palfrey, attended by a cavalier 
on horseback. She galloped up to the gate, sprang 
from her horse, and, falling at the baron's feet, em- 
braced his knees. It was his lost daughter, and 
her companion — the Spectre Bridegroom ! The 
baron was astounded. He looked at his daughter, 
then at the spectre, and almost doubted the evi- 
dence of his senses. The latter, too, was wonder- 
fully improved in his appearance since his visit to 
the world of spirits. His dress was splendid, and 
set off a noble figure of manly symmetry. He was 



THE SPI'ICTRE BRIDEGROOM. 203 

no longer pale and melancholy. His fine counte- 
nance was Hushed with the glow of youth, and jo}'" 
rioted in his large dark eye. 

The mystery was soon cleared up. The cavalier 
(for, in truth, as you must have known all the while, 
he was no goblin) announced himself as Sir Herman 
Von Starkenfaust. He related his adventure with 
the young count. He told how he had hastened 
to the castle to deliver the unwelcome tidings, but 
that the eloquence of the baron had interrupted 
him in every attempt to tell his tale. How the 
sight of the bride had completely captivated him, 
and that to pass a few hours near her he had tacitly 
suffered the mistake to continue. How he had 
been sorely perplexed in what way to make a 
decent retreat, until the baron's goblin stories had 
suggested his eccentric exit. How, fearing the 
feudal hostility of the family, he had repeated his 
visits by stealth — had haunted the garden beneath 
the young lady's window — had wooed — had won — • 
had borne away in triumph — and, in a word, had 
wedded the fair. 

Under any other circumstances the baron would 
have been inflexible, for he was tenacious of pater- 
nal authority and devoutly obstinate in all family 
feuds; but he loved his daughter; he had lamented 
her as lost ; he rejoiced to find her still alive ; and, 
though her husband was of a hostile house, yet, 
thank Heaven ! he was not a goblin. There was 
something, it must he acknowledged, that did not 
exactly accord with his notions of strict veracity in 
the joke the knight had passed upon him of his 
being a dead man ; but several old friends present, 
who had served in the wars, assured 5iim that every 



204 



THE SKETCIJ-BOOK. 



stratagem was excusable in love, and that the cava- 
lier was entitled to especial privilege, having lately 
served as a trooper. 

Matters, therefore, were happily arranged. "I'he 
baron pardoned the young couple on the spot. The 
revels at the castle were resumed. The poor rela- 
tions overwhelmed this new member of the family 
with loving-kindness ; he was so gallant, so generous 
— and so rich. The aunts, it is true, were somewhat 
scandalized that their system of strict seclusion 
and passive obedience should be so badly exem- 
plified, but attributed it all to their negligence in not 
having the windows grated. One of them was par- 
ticularly mortified at having her marvellous story 
marred, and that the only spectre she had ever seen 
should turn out a counterfeit; but the niece seemed 
perfectly happy at having found him substantial 
flesh and blood. And so the story ends. 



WESTMINS TER A BEE K 



205 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 

When I l)ehokl, with deep astonishment, 
To famous Westminster how there resorte, 
Living in brasse or stoney monument, 
The princes and the wortliies of all sorte ; 
Doe not I see refornide nobilitie. 
Without contempt, or pride, or ostentation 
And looke upon offenselesse majesty, 
Naked of pomp or earthly domination ? 
And how a play-game of a painted stone 
Contents the quiet now and silent sprites, 
Whome all the world which late they stood pon, 
Could not content nor quench their appetif . 
Life is a frost of cold felicitie, 
And death the thaw of all our vanitie. 

Christolero's Epigrams, by 'Y B. 1598. 

On one of those sober and rather melancholy 
days in the latter part of autmnn when the shadows 
of morning and evening almost mingle together, 
and throw a gloom over the decline of the year, I 
passed several hours in rambling about Westmin- 
ster Abbey. There was something congenial to the 
season in the mournful magnificence of the old pile, 
and as 1 passed its threshold it seemed like step- 
ping back into the regions of antiquity and losing 
myself among the shades of former ages, 

1 entered from the inner court of Westminster 
School, through a long, low, vaulted passage that 
had an almost subterranean look, being dimly 
lighted in one part by circular perforations in the 
massive walls. Through this dark avenue I had a 



2o6 THE SKETCH-BOOK'. 

distant view of the cloisters, with the figure of an 
old verger in his black gown moving along their 
shadowy vaults, and seeming like a spectre from 
one of the neighboring tombs. The approach to 
the abbey through these gloomy monastic remains 
prepares the mind for its solemn contemplation. 
The cloisters still retain something of the quiet and 
seclusion of former days. The gray walls are dis- 
colored by damps and crumbling with age ; a coat 
of hoary moss has gathered over the inscriptions of 
the mural monuments, and obscured the death's 
heads and other funeral emblems. The sharp 
touches of the chisel are gone from the rich tracery 
of the arches ; the roses which adorned the key- 
stones have lost their leafy beauty; everything 
bears marks of the gradual dilapidations of time, 
which yet has something touching and pleasing in 
its very decay. 

The sun was pouring down a yellow autumnal 
ray into the square of the cloisters, beaming upon 
a scanty plot of grass in "he centre, and lighting 
up an angle of the vaulted passage with a kind of 
dusky splendor. From between the arcades the 
eye glanced up to a bit of blue sky or a passing 
cloud, and beheld the sun-gilt pinnacles of the 
abbey towering into the azure heaven. 

As I paced the cloisters, sometimes contemplating 
this mingled picture of glory and decay, and some- 
times endeavoring to decipher the inscriptions on 
the tombstones which formed the pavement be- 
neath my feet, my eye was -attracted to three 
figures rudely carved in relief, but nearly worn 
away by tlie footsteps of many generations. They 
were the effigies of three of the earlv abbots ; the 



WESTM. .\ STER ABBE Y. 



207 



epitaphs were entirely effaced ; the names alone 
remained, having no doubt been renewed in later 
times (Vitalis. Abbas. 1082, and Gislebertiis Cris- 
pinus. Abbas. II 14, and Laurentius. Abbas. 1176). 
I remained some little while, musing over these 
casual relics of antiquity thus left like wrecks upon 
this distant shore of time, telling no tale but that 
such beings had been and had perished, teaching 
no moral but the futility of that pride which hopes 
still to exact homage in its ashes and to live in an 
inscription. A little longer, and even these faint 
records will be obliterated and the monument will 
cease to be a memorial. Whilst I was yet looking 
down upon the gravestones I was roused by the 
sound of the abbey clock, reverberating from but- 
tress to buttress and echoing among the cloisters. 
It is almost startling to hear this warning of de- 
parted lime sounding among the tombs and telling 
the lapse of the hour, which, like a billow, has 
rolled us onward towards the grave. I pursred 
my walk to an arched door opening to the interior 
of the abbev. On entering here the magnitude of 
the building breaks fully upon the mind, contrasted 
with the vaults of the cloisters. The eyes gaze 
with wonder at clustered columns of giirantic di- 
mensions, with arches springing from them to such 
an amazing height, and man wandering about their 
bases, shrunk into insignilicance in comparison 
with his own handiwork. The spaciousness and 
gloom of this vast edifice produce a profound and 
mysterious awe. \\'e step cautiously and softly 
about, as if fearful of disturbing the hallowed silence 
of the tomb, while every footfall whispers along 
the walls and chatters among the sepulchres, 



2o8 THE SKETLII-BOOK. 

making us more sensible of the quiet we have in- 
terrupted. 

It seems as if the awful nature of the place 
presses down upon the soul and hushes the be- 
holder into noiseless reverence. \\'e feel that we 
are surrounded by the congregated bones of the 
great men of past times, who have filled history 
with their deeds and the earth with their renown. 

And yet it almost provokes a smile at the vanity 
of human ambition to see how they are crowded 
together and jostled in the dust ; what parsimony 
is observed in doling out a scanty nook, a gloomy 
corner, a little portion of earth, to those whom, 
when alive, kingdoms could not satisfy, and how 
many shapes and forms and artifices are devised 
to catch the casual notice of the passenger, and 
save from forgetful ness for a few short years a 
name which once aspired to occupy ages of the 
world's thought and admiration. 

I passed some time in Poet's Corner, which 
occupies an end of one of the transepts or cross 
aisles of the abbey. The monuments are generally 
simple, for the lives of literary men afford no strik- 
ing themes for the sculptor. Shakespeare and Addi- 
son have statues erected to their memories, but the 
greater part have busts, medallions, and sometimes 
mere inscriptions. Notwithstanding the simplicity 
of these memorials, I have always observed that 
the visitors to the abbey remained longest about 
them. A kinder and fonder feeling takes place of 
that cold curiosity or vague admiration with which 
they gaze on the splendid monuments of the great 
and the heroic. They linger about these as about 
the tombs of friends and companions, for indeed 



/ FES TMINS TER A BEE Y. 



209 



there is something of companionship betvA^een the 
author and the reader. Other men are known to 
posterity only through the medium of history, 
which is continually growing faint and obscure ; but 
the intercourse between the author and his fellow- 
men is ever new, active, and immediate. He has 
lived for them more than for himself; he has sacri- 
ficed surrounding enjoyments, and shut himself up 
from the delights of social life, that he might the more 
intimately commune with distant minds and distant 
ages. Well may the world cherish his renown, for 
it has been purchased not by deeds of violence and 
blood, but by the diligent dispensation of pleasure. 
Well may posterity be grateful to his memory, for 
he has left it an inheritance not of empty names 
and sounding actions, but whole treasures of 
wisdom, bright gems of thought, and golden veins 
of language. 

From Poet's Corner I continued my stroll towards 
that part of the abbey which contains the sepulchres 
of the kings. I wandered among what once were 
chapels, but which are now occupied by the tombs 
and monuments of the great. At every turn I met 
with some illustrious name or the coijnizance of 
some powerful house renowned in history. As the 
eye darts into these dusky chambers of death it 
catches glimpses of quaint effigies — some kneeling 
in niches, as if in devotion; others stretched upon 
the tombs, with hands piously pressed together ; 
warriors in armor, as if reposing after battle ; prel- 
ates, with crosiers and mitres; and nobles in robes 
and coronets, lying as it were in state. In glancing 
over this scene, so strangely populous, yet where 
every form is so still and silent, it seems almost as 
14 



2IO THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

if we were treading a mansion of that fabled city 
where every being had been suddenly transmuted 
into stone. 

I paused to contemplate 2. tomb on which lay the 
effigy of a knight in complete armor. A large 
buckler was on one arm ; the hands were pressed 
together in supplication upon the breast ; the face 
was almost covered by the morion ; the legs were 
crossed, in token of the warrior's having been en- 
gaged in the holy war. It was the tomb of a 
crusader, of one of those military enthusiasts who 
so strangely mingled religion and romance, and 
whose exploits form the connecting link between 
fact and fiction, between the history and the fairy- 
tale. There is something extremely picturesque in 
the tombs of these adventurers, decorated as they 
are with rude armorial bearings and Gothic sculpt- 
ure. They comport with the antiquated chapels 
in which they are generally found ; and in consider- 
ing them the imagination is apt to kindle with the 
legendary associations, the romantic fiction, the 
chivalrous pomp and pageantry which poetry has 
spread over the wars for the sepulchre of Christ. 
They are the relics of times utterly gone by, of beings 
passed from recollection, of custr^ms and manners 
with which ours have no affinity. They are like 
objects from some strange and distant land of which 
we have no certain knowledge, and about which 
all our conceptions are vague and visionary. There 
is something extremely solemn and awful in those 
effigies on Gothic tombs, extended as if in the sleep 
of death or in the supplication of the dying hour. 
They have an effect infinitely more impressive on 
my feelings than the fanciful attitudes, the over* 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 2ii 

wrought conceits, the allegorical groups which 
abound on modern monuments. I have been 
struck, al30, with the superiority of many of the 
old sepulchral inscriptions. There was a noble way 
in former times of saying things simply, and yet 
saying them proudly'; and I do not know an 
epitaph that breathes a loftier consciousness of 
family worth and honorable lineage than one which 
affirms of a noble house that '' all the brothers were 
brave and all the sisters virtuous." 

i\\ the opposite transept to Poet's Corner stands 
a monument which is among the most renowned 
achievements of modern art, but which to me 
appears horrible rather than sublime. It is the 
tomb of Mrs. Nightingale, by Roubillac. The bot- 
tom of the monument is represented as throwing 
open its marble doors, and a sheeted skeleton is 
starting forth. The shroud is falling from his 
fieshless frame as he launches his dart at his vic- 
tim. She is sinking into her affrighted husband's 
arms, who strives v/ith vain and frantic effort to 
avert the blow. The whole is executed with terri- 
ble truth and spirit ; we almost fancy we hear the 
gibbering yell of triumph bursting from the dis- 
tended jaws of the spectre. But why should we 
thus seek to clothe death with unnecessary ter- 
rors, and to spread horrors round the tomb of 
those we love ? The grave should be surrounded 
by everything that might inspire tenderness and 
veneration for the dead, or that might win the liv- 
ing to virtue. It is the place not of disgust and 
dismay, but of sorrow and meditation. 

While wandering about these gloomy vaults and 
silent aisles, studying the records of the dead, the 



212 TflE SKETCH-BOOK. 

sound of busy existence from without occasionally 
readies the ear— the rumbUng of the passing' 
equipage, the murmur of the multitude, or per- 
haps the light laugh of pleasure. The contrast is 
striking with the deathlike repose around; audit 
has a strange effect upon the feelings tluis to hear 
the surges of active life hurrying along and beat- 
ing against the very walls of the sepulchre. 

I continued in this way to move from tomb to 
tomb and from chapel to chapel. The day was 
gradually wearing away ; the distant tread of loi- 
terers about the abbey grew^ less and less fre- 
quent ; the sweet-tongued bell was summoning to 
evening prayers ; and I saw at a distance the 
choristers in their white surplices crossing the 
aisle and entering the choir. I stood before the 
entrance to Henry the Seventh's chapel. A flight 
of steps leads up to it through a deep and gloomy 
but magnificent arch. Great gates of brass, richly 
and delicately wrought, turn heavily upon their 
hinges, as if proudly reluctant to admit the feet of 
common mortals into this most gorgeous of sepul- 
chres. 

On entering the e\-e is astonished by the pomp 
of architecture and the elaborate beauty of sculpt- 
ured detail. The very walls are wrought into 
universal ornament encrusted with tracery, and 
scooped into niches crowded with the statues of 
saints and martvrs. Stone seems, bv the cunning 
labor of the chisel, to have been robbed of its 
weight and density, suspended aloft as if by magic, 
and the fretted roof achieved with the wonderful 
minuteness and airy security of a cobweb. 

Along the sides of the chapel are the lofty stalls 



WESTM/XSTER ABBEY. 213 

of the Knights of the Bath, richly carved of oak, 
though with the grotesque decorations of Gothic 
architecture. On the pinnacles of the stalls are 
affixed the helmets and crests of the knights, with 
their scan's and swords, and above them are sus- 
pended their banners, emblazoned with armorial 
iDearings, and contrasting the splendor of gold and 
purple and crimson with the cold gray fretwork of 
the roof. In tlie midst of this grand mausoleum 
stands the sepulchre of its founder — his effigy, with 
that of his queen, extend^-d on a sumptuous tomb — ■ 
and the whole surrounded by a superbly-wrought 
brazen railing. 

There is a sad dreariness in this magnificence, 
this strange mixture of tombs and trophies, these 
emblems of living and aspiring ambition, close 
beside mementos which show the dust and oblivion 
in which all must sooner or later terminate. Noth- 
ing impresses the mind wdth a deeper feeling of 
loneliness than to tread the silent and deserted 
scene of former throng and pageant. On looking 
round on the vacant stalls of the kniirhts and their 
esquires, and on the rows of dusty but gorgeous ban- 
ners that were once borne before them, my imagi- 
nation conjured up the scene when this hall was 
bright with the valor and beauty of the land, glit- 
tering with the splendor of jewelled rank and mili- 
tary array, alive with the tread of many feet and 
the hum of an admiring multitude. All had passed 
away ; the silence of death had settled again upon 
the place, interrupted only by the casual chirping 
of birds, which had found their way into the chapel 
and built their nests among its friezes and pen- 
dants — sure signs of solitariness and desertion. 



214 7.Vv^ SKETCri-BOOK. 

When I read the names inscribed on the banners, 
they were those of men scattered far and wide 
about the world — some tossing upon distant seas : 
some under arms in distant lands; some mingling 
in the busy intrigues of courts and cabinets, — all 
seeking to deserve one more distinction in this 
mansion of shadowy honors — the melancholy re- 
ward of a monument. 

Two small aisles on each side of this chapel 
present a touching instance of the equality of the 
grave, which brings down the oppressor to a level 
with the oppressed and mingles the dust of the 
bitterest enemies together. In one is the sepulchre 
of the haughty Elizabeth ; in the other is that of 
her victim, the lovely and unfortunate Mary. Not 
an hour in the day but some ejaculation of pity is 
uttered over the fate of the latter, mingled with 
indignation at her oppressor. The walls of Eliza- 
beth's sepulchre continually echo with the sighs of 
sympathy heaved at the grave of her rival. 

A peculiar melancholy reigns over the aisle 
where Mary lies buried. The light struggles dimly 
through windows darkened by dust. The greater 
part of the place is in deep shadow, and the walls 
are stained and tinted by time and weather. A 
marble figure of Mary is stretched upon the tomb, 
round w^iich is an iron railing, much corroded, 
bearing her national emblem — the thistle. I was 
weary with wandering, and sat down to rest myself 
by the monument, revolving in my mind the 
chequered and disastrous story of poor Mary. 

The sound of casual footsteps had ceased from 
the abbey. I could only hear, now and then, the 
distant voice of the priest repeating the evening 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 215 

service and the faint responses of the choir ; these 
paused for a time, and all was hushed. The still- 
ness, the desertion, and obscurity that were grad- 
ally prevailing around gave a deeper and more 
solemn interest to the place; 

For ill the silent grave no conversation, 
No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers, 
No careful father's counsel — nothing's heard, 
For nothing is, but all oblivion, 
Dust, and an endless darkness. 

Suddenly the notes of the deep-laboring organ 
burst upon the ear, falling with doubled and re- 
doubled intensity, and rolling, as it were, huge 
billows of sound. How well do their volume and 
grandeur accord with this mighty building ! With 
what pomp do they swell through its vast vaults, 
and breathe their awful harmony through these 
caves of death, and make the silent sepulchre 
vocal ! And now they rise in triumphant acclama- 
tion, heaving higher and higher their accordant 
notes and piling sound on sound. And now they 
pause, and the soft voices of the choir break out 
into sweet gushes of melody ; they soar aloft and 
warble along the roof, and seem to play about 
these lofty vaults like the pure airs of heaven. 
Again the pealing organ heaves its thrilling thun- 
ders, compressing air into music, and rolling it forth 
upon the soul. What long-drawn cadences ! What 
solemn sweeping concords ! It grows more and 
more dense and powerful ; it fills the vast pile and 
seems to jar the very walls — the ear is stunned — • 
the senses are overwhelmed. And now it is wind- 
ing up in full jubilee — it is rising from the earth 



2. 1 6 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

to heaven ; the very soul seems rapt away and 
floated upwards on tliis swelHng tide of harmony ! 

I sat for some time lost in that kind of reverie 
•which a strain of music is apt sometimes to inspire: 
the shadows of eveninsf were jrraduallv thickenins: 
round me; the monuments began to cast deeper 
and deeper gloom ; and the distant clock again 
gave token of the slowly waning day. 

I rose and prepared to leave the abbey. As 
I descended the flight of steps which lead into the 
body of the building, my eye was caught by the 
shrine of Edward the Confessor, and 1 ascended 
the small staircase that conducts to it, to take from 
thence a general survey of this wilderness of tombs. 
The shrine is elevated upon a kind of platform, 
and close around it are the sepulchres of various 
kings and queens. From this eminence the eye 
looks down betw^een pillars and funeral trophies to 
the chapels and chambers below, crowded with 
tombs, where warriors, prelates, courtiers, and 
statesmen lie mouldering in their "beds of dark- 
ness." Close by me stood the great chair of coro- 
nation, rudely carved of oak in the barbarous taste 
of a remote and Gothic age. The scene seemed 
almost as if contrived with theatrical artifice to 
produce an effect upon the beholder. Here was a 
type of the beginning and the end of human pomp 
and power ; here it was literally but a step from 
the throne to the sepulchre. Would not one think 
that these incongruous mementos had been gathered 
together as a lesson to living greatness ? — to show 
it, even in the moment of its proudest exaltation, 
the neglect and dishonor to which it must soon 
arrive — how soon that crown which encircles its 



WESTMIXSTEK ABBEY. 217 

brow must pass away, and it must lie down in the 
dust and disgraces of the tomb, and be trampled 
upon by the feet of the meanest of the multitude. 
For, strange to tell, even the grave is here no longer 
a sanctuarv. There is a shockins: levitv in some 
natures which leads them to sport with awful and 
hallowvid things, and there are base minds which 
delight to revenge on the illustrious dead the abject 
homage and grovelling servility which they pay to 
the living. The coffin of Edward the Confessor 
has been broken open, and his remains despoiled 
of their funereal ornaments ; the sceptre has been 
stolen from the hand of the imperious Elizabeth ; 
and the effigy of Henry the Fifth lies headless. 
Not a royal monument but bears some proof how 
false and fugitive is the homage of mankind. Some 
are plundered, some mutilated, some covered with 
ribaldry and insult, — all more or less outraged and 
dishonored. 

The last beams of day were now faintly stream- 
ing through the painted windows in the high vaults 
above me ; the lower parts of the abbey were 
already wrapped in the obscurity of twilight. The 
chapels and aisles grew darker and darker. The 
effigies of the kings faded into shadows ; the mar- 
ble figures of the monuments assumed strange 
shapes in the uncertain light ; the evening breeze 
crept through the aisles like the cold breath of the 
grave ; and even the distant footfall of a verger, 
traversing the Poet's Corner, had something strange 
and dreary in its sound. I slowly retraced my 
morning's walk, and as I passed out at the portal of 
the cloisters, the door, closing with a jarring noise 
behind me, filled the whole building with echoes. 



2l8 TIIK SKETCH-BOOK. 

I endeavored to form some arrangement in my 
mind of the objects I had been contemplating, but 
found they were already falhng into indistinctness 
and confusion. Names, inscriptions, trophies, had 
all become confounded in my recollection, though 
I had scarcely taken my foot from off the thresh- 
old. ^^'hat, thought I, is this vast assemblage of 
sepulchres but a treasury of humiliation — a huge 
pile of reiterated homilies on the emptiness of re- 
nown and the certainty of oblivion .'' It is, indeed, 
the empire of death ; his great shadowy palace 
where he sits in state mocking at the relics of 
human glory and spreading dust and forgetful ness 
on the monuments of princes. How idle a boast, 
after all, is the immortality of a name ! Time is 
ever silently turning over his pages ; we are too 
much engrossed by the story of the present to think 
of the characters and anecdotes that gave interest 
to the past ; and each age is a volume thrown aside 
to be speedily forgotten. The idol of to-day pushes 
the hero of yesterday out of our recollection, and 
will in turn be supplanted by his successor of to- 
morrow. " Our fathers," says Sir Thomas Browne, 
"find their graves in our short memories, and sadly 
tell us how we may be buried in our survivors." 
History fades into fable ; fact becomes clouded 
with doubt and controversy ; the inscription moul- 
ders from the tablet ; the statue falls from the 
pedestal. Columns, arches, pyramids, what are 
they but heaps of sand, and their epitaphs but 
characters written in the dust .'* What is the 
security of a tomb or the perpetuity of an embalm- 
ment? The remains of Alexander the Great have 
been scattered to the wind, and his empty sar- 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 219 

cophagus is now the mere curiosity of a museum. 
*' Tiie Egyptian mummies, which Cambyses or time 
hath spared, avarice now consumeth ; Mizraim 
cures wounds, and Pharaoh is sold for balsams." * 
What then is to ensure this pile which now 
towers above me from sharing the fate of mightier 
mausoleums ? The time must come when its gilded 
vaults which now spring so loftily, shall lie in 
rubbish beneath the feet ; when instead of the 
sound of melody and praise the wind shall whistle 
throufih the broken arches and the owl hoot from 
the shattered tower : when the garish sunbeam shall 
break into these gloomy mansions of death, and 
the ivy twine round the fallen column ; and the 
fox-alove hang: its blossoms about the nameless 
urn, as if in mockery of the dead. Thus man passes 
away ; his name passes from record and recollec- 
tion ; his history is as a tale that is told, and his 
very monument becomes a ruin. 

* Sir T. Browne. 



220 THE SKETCII-BUOK 



CHRISTMAS. 

But is oic5, okl, jijcccl :^kl Christmas gone ? Nothing but the 
hair of his good, gray old head and beard left ? Well, I will 
have that, seeing I cannot have more of him. 

IIuK AND Cry after Christmas. 

A man might then behold 

At C'hristmas, in each hall 
Gcod fires to curb the cold, 

And meat for great and small. 
The neighbors were frii;r<^nv bidden, 

,A;id all '.;r.d welcome <^»"ue. 
The poor from tnc ^at-^"* were n^c .ihidden 
Wheii this old c^p was new. 

Old Suisv^. 

^CTHirs'G in England exercises a more tlclightful 
b^f^Xi cvtir my imagination than the lingerings of the 
iioUday customs and rural games of former times. 
They recall the pictures my fancy used to draw in 
the May morning of life, when as yet I only knew 
tne world through books, and believed it to be all 
tbat poets had painted it ; and they bring with 
^Jiem the flavor of those honest days of yore, in 
v\hich, perhaps with equal fallacy, I am apt to 
think the world was more homebred, social, and 
3oyous than at present. I regret to say that they 
^re daily growing more and more famt, being grad- 
Mally worn away by time, but still more obliterated 
by modern fashion. They resemble those pictur- 
esque morsels of Gothic arciiitecture which we see 
crumbling in various parts of the country, partly 



CHRISTMAS. 221 

dilapidated by the waste of ages and partly lost in 
the additions and alterations of latter days. Poetry, 
however, clings with cherishing fondness about the 
rural game and holiday revel from which it has 
derived so many of its themes, as the ivy winds its 
rich foliage about the Gothic arch and mouldering 
tower, gratefully repaying their support by clasping 
together their tottering remains, and, as it were, 
embalming tb.em in verdure. 

Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christ- 
mas awakens the strongest and most heartfelt 
associations. There is a tone of solemn and sacred 
feeling that blends with our conviviality, and lifts 
the spirit to a state of hallowed and elevated enjoy- 
ment. The services of the Church about this 
season are extremely tender and inspiring. They 
dwell on the beautiful story of the origin of our 
faith and the pastoral scenes that accompanied its 
announcement. They gradually increase in fervor 
and pathos during the season of Advent, until they 
break forth in full jubilee on the morning that 
brought peace and good-will to men. I do not 
know a grander effect of music on the moral feel- 
ings than to hear the full choir and the pealing 
organ performing a Christmas anthem in a cathe- 
dral, and filling every part of the vast pile with 
triumphant harmony. 

It is a beautiful arrangement, also, derived from 
days of yore, that this festival, which commemorates 
the announcement of the religion of peace and love, 
has been made the season for gathering together 
of family connections, and drawing closer again 
those bands of kindred hearts which the cares and 
pleasures and sorrows df the world are continually 



22 2 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

operating to cast loose ; of calling back the children 
of a family who have launched forth in life and 
wandered widely asunder, once more to assemble 
about the paternal hearth, that rallying-place of the 
affections, there to grow young and loving again 
among the endearing mementos of childhood. 

There is something in the very season of the year 
that gives a charm to the festivity of Christmas. 
At other times we derive a great portion of our 
pleasures from the mere beauties of Nature. Our 
feelings sally forth and dissipate themselves over 
the sunny landscape, and we "live abroad and 
everywhere." The song of the bird, the murmur 
of the stream, the breathing fragrance of spring, 
the soft voluptuousness of summer, the golden 
pomp of autumn, earth with its mantle of refreshing 
green, and heaven with its deep delicious blue and 
its cloudy magnificence, — all fill us with mute but 
exquisite delight, and we revel in the luxury of 
mere sensation. But in the depth of winter, when 
Nature lies despoiled of every charm and wrapped 
in her shroud of sheeted snow, we turn for our 
gratifications to moral sources. The dreariness 
and desolation of the landscape, the short gloomy 
days and darksome nights, while they circumscribe 
our wanderings, shut in our feelings also from 
rambling abroad, and make us more keenly dis- 
posed for the pleasure of the social circle. Our 
thoughts are more concentrated ; our friendly 
sympathies more aroused. We feel more sensibly 
the charm of each other's society, and are brought 
more closely together by dependence on each other 
for enjoyment. Heart calleth unto heart, and we 
draw our pleasures from the deep wells of loving- 



CHRISTMAS. 223 

kindness which lie in the quiet recesses of our 
bosoms, and which, when resorted to, furnish fortli 
the pure element of domestic felicity.- 

The pitchy gloom without makes the heart dilate 
on entering the room filled with the glow and 
warmth of the evening fire. The ruddy blaze 
diffuses an artificial summer and sunshine through 
the room, and lights up each countenance in a 
kindlier welcome. Where does the honest face of 
hospitality expand into a broader and more cordial 
smile, where is the shy glance of love more sweetly 
eloquent, than by the winter fireside 1 and as the 
hollow blast of wintry wind rushes through the hall, 
claps the distant door, whistles about the casement, 
and rumbles down the chimney, what can be more 
grateful than that feeling of sober and sheltered 
security with which we •look round upon the com- 
fortable chamber and the scene of domestic 
hilarity ? 

The English, from the great prevalence of rural 
habit throughout every class of society, have always 
been fond of those festivals and holidays, which 
agreeably interrupt the stillness of country life, and 
they were, in former days, particularly observant of 
the religious and social rites of Christmas. It is 
inspiring to read even the dry details which some 
antiquaries have given of the quaint humors, the 
burlesque pageants, the complete abandonment to 
mirth and good-fellowship with which this festival 
was celebrated. It seemed to throw open every 
door and unlock every heart. It brought the peas- 
ant and the peer together, and blended all ranks in 
one warm, generous flow of joy and kindness. The 
old halls of castles and manor-houses resounded 



224 THE SKETCH-BOOIC. 

with the harp and the Christmas carol, and their 
ample boards groaned under the weight of hospi- 
tality. Even the poorest cottage welcomed the fes- 
tive season with green decorations of bay and holly 
— the cheerful fire glanced its rays through the lat- 
tice, inviting the passengers to raise the latch and 
join the gossip knot huddled round the hearth be- 
guiling the long evening with legendary jokes and 
oft-told Christmas tales. 

One of the least pleasing effects of modern re- 
finement is the havoc it has made among the hearty 
old holiday customs. It has completely taken off 
the sharp touchings and spirited reliefs of these em- 
bellishments of life, and has worn down society 
into a more smooth and polished, but certainly a 
less characteristic, surface. Many of the games 
and ceremonials of Christmas have entirely disap- 
peared, and, like the sherris sack of old Falstaff, are 
become matters of speculation and dispute among 
commentators. They flourished in times full of 
spirit and lustihood, when men enjoyed life roughly, 
but heartily and vigorously— times wild and pictur- 
esque, which have furnished poetry with its richest 
materials and the drama with its most attractive 
variety of characters and manners. The world has 
become more worldly. There is more of dissipa- 
tion, and less of enjoyment. Pleasure has ex- 
panded into a broader, but a shallower stream, and 
has forsaken many of those deep and quiet channels 
where it flowed sweetly through the calm bosom of 
domestic life. Society has acquired a more en- 
lightened and elegant tone, but it has lost many of 
its strong local peculiarities, its homebred feelings, 
its honest fireside delights. The traditionary cus* 



cii::isTMAS. • 225 

toms of golden-hearted antiquity, its feudal hospi- 
talities, and lordly wassailings, have passed away 
with the baronial castles and stately manor-houses 
in which they were celebrated. They comported 
with the shadowy hall, the great oaken galler)-, and 
the tapestried parlor, but are untUted to the light 
showv saloons and 2;av drawincf-rooms of the modern 
villa. 

Shorn, however, as it is, of its ancient and festive 
honors, Christmas is still a period of delightful ex- 
citement in England. It is gratifying to see that 
home-feeling completely aroused which holds so 
powerful a place in every English bosom. The 
preparations making on every side for the social 
board that is again to unite friends and kindred ; 
the presents of good cheer passing and repassing, 
those tokens of regard and quickeners of kind feel- 
ings ; the evergreens distributed about houses and 
churches, emblems of peace and gladness, — all these 
have the most pleasing effect in producing fond 
associations and kindling benevolent sympathies. 
Even the sound of the Waits, rude as may be their 
minstrelsy, breaks upon the mid-watches of a win- 
ter night with the effect of perfect harmon}-. As I 
have been awakened by them in that still and solemn 
hour " when deep sleep falleth upon man," I have 
listened with a hushed delight, and, connecting 
them with the sacred and joyous occasion, have 
almost fancied them into another celestial choir 
announcing peace and good-will to mankind. 

How delightfullv the imagination, when wrought 
upon by these moral influences, turns everything to 
melody and beauty ! The very crowing of the cock, 
heard sometimes in the profound repose of the 

15 



2 26 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

country, " telling the night-watches to his feathery 
dames," was thougiit by the common people to an- 
nounce the approach of this sacred festival. 

" Some saj'' that ever 'gainst that season comes 
Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, 
This bird of dawning singeth all night long; 
And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad ; 
The nights are wholesome — then no planets strike, 
No fairy .takes, no witch hath power to charm, 
So hallow'd and so gracious is the time." 

Amidst the general call to happiness, the bustle of 
the spirits, and stir of the affections which prevail 
at this period what bosom can remain insensible ? 
It is, indeed, the season of regenerated feeling — the 
season for kindling not merely the fire of hospitality 
in the hall, but the genial flame of charity in the 
heart. 

The scene of early love again rises green to mem- 
ory beyond the sterile waste of years ; and the idea 
of home, fraught with the fragrance of home-dwell- 
ing J03's, reanimates the drooping spirit, as the 
Arabian breeze will sometimes w-aft the freshness 
of the distant fields to the weary pilgrim of the 
desert. 

Stranger and sojourner as I am in the land, 
though for me no social hearth may blaze, no hos- 
pitable roof throw open its doors, nor the w^arm 
grasp of friendship welcome me at the threshold, 
yet I feel the influence of the season beaming into 
my soul from the happy looks of those around me. 
Surely happiness is reflective, like the light of 
heaven, and every countenance, bright with smiles 
and glowing with innocent, enjoyment, is a mirror 
transmitting to others the rays of a supreme and 



CHRISTMAS. 2?r 

ever-shining benevolence. He who can turn churl- 
ishly away from contemplating the felicity of his 
fellow-beings, and can sit down darkling and repin- 
ing in his loneliness when all around is joyful, may 
have his moments of strong excitement and selfish 
gratification, but he wants the genial and social 
sympathies which constitute the charm of a merry 
Christmas, 



22S THE SKETCH BOOK. 



THE STAGE-COACH. 

Omne bene 

Sine poena 
Tempua est ludendi. 

Venit hora 

Absque mora 
Libros deponendi. 

Old Holiday School-Song, 

In the preceding paper I have made some gen- 
eral observations on the Christmas festivities of 
England, and am tempted to illustrate them by 
some anecdotes of a Christmas passed in the coun- 
try ; in perusing which I would most courteously 
invite my reader to lay aside the austerity of wis- 
dom, and to put on that genuine holiday spirit which 
is tolerant of folly and anxious only for amusement. 

In the course of a December tour in Yorkshire, 
I rode for a long distance in one of the public 
coaches on the day preceding Christmas. The 
coach was crowded, both inside and out, with pas- 
sengers who, by their talk, seemed principally bound 
to the mansions of relations or friends to eat the 
Christmas dinner. It was loaded also with hampers 
of game and baskets and boxes of delicacies, and 
hares hung dangling their long ears about the coach- 
man's box, presents from distant friends for the im- 
pending feast. I had three fine rosy-cheeked school- 
boys for my fellow-passengers inside, full of the 
buxom health and manly spirit which I have ob- 



THE STAGE-COACH. 



229 



served in the children of this country. They were 
returning home for the holidays in high glee, and 
promising themselves a world of enjoyment. It 
was delightful to hear the gigantic plans of the lit- 
tle rogues, and the impracticable feats they were to 
perform during their six weeks' emancipation from 
t.he abhorred thraldom of book, birch, and peda- 
gogue. They were full of anticipations of the meet- 
ing with the family and household, down to the very 
cat and dog, and of the joy they were to give their 
little sisters by the presents with which their pockets 
were crammed.; but the meeting to which they 
seemed to look forward with the greatest impatience 
was with Bantam, which I found to be a pony, and, 
according to their talk, possessed of more virtues 
than any steed since the days of Bucephalus. How 
tie could trot ! how he could run ! and then such 
leaps as he would take ! — there was not a hedge in 
the whole country that he could not clear. 

They were under the particular guardianship of 
the coachman, to whom, whenever an opportunity 
presented, they addressed a host of questions, and 
pronounced him one of the best fellows in the 
world. Indeed, I could not but notice the more 
tban ordinary air of bustle and importance of the 
coachman, who wore his hat a little on one side and 
had a large bunch of Christmas greens stuck in the 
buttonhole of his coat. He is always a personage 
full of mighty care and business, but he is particu- 
larly so during this season, having so many com- 
missions to execute in consequence of the great 
interchano-e of presents. And here, perhaps, it 
may not be unacceptable to my untravelled readers 
to have a sketch that may serve as a general repre- 



230 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

sentation of this very numerous and important 
class of functionaries, who have a dress, a manner, 
a language, an air peculiar to themselves and prev- 
alent throughout the fraternity ; so that wherever 
an English stage-coachman may be seen he cannot 
be mistaken for one of any other craft or mystery. 

He has commonly a broad, full face, curiously 
mottled with red, as if the blood had been forced 
by hard feeding into every vessel of the skin ; he 
is swelled into jolly dimensions by frequent pota- 
tions of malt liquors, and his bulk is still further 
increased by a multiplicity cf coats, in which he is 
buried like a cauliflower, the upper one reaching 
to his heels. He wears a broad-brimmed, low- 
crowned hat ; a huge roll of colored handkerchief 
about his neck, knowingly knotted and tucked in 
at the bosom ; and has in summer-time a large 
bouquet of flowers in his buttonhole, the present, 
most probably, of some enamored country lass. 
His waistcoat is commonly of some bright color, 
striped, and his small-clothes extend far below the 
knees, to meet a pair of jockey boots which reach 
about halfway up his legs. 

All this costume is maintained with much pre- 
cision ; he has a pride in having his clothes of excel- 
lent materials, and, notwithstanding the seeming 
grossness of his appearance, there is still discern- 
ible that neatness and propriety of person which is 
almost inherent in an Englishman. He enjoys 
great consequence and consideration along the 
road ; has frequent conferences with the village 
housewives, who look upon him as a man of great 
trust and dependence ; and he seems to have a 
good understanding with every bright-eyed country 



THE STAGE-COACH. 



231 



lass. The moment he arrives where the horses are 

to be changed, he throws down the reins with some- 
thing of an air and abandons the cattle to the care 
of the ostler, his duty being merely to drive from 
one stage to another. When off the box his hands 
are thrust into the pockets of his great coat, and he 
rolls about the inn-yard with an air of the most 
absolute lordliness. Here he is generally sur- 
rounded by an admiring throng of ostlers, stable- 
boys, shoeblacks, and those nameless hangers-on 
that infest inns and taverns, and run errands and 
do all kind of odd jobs for the privilege of batten- 
ing on the drippings of the kitchen and the leakage 
of the tap-room. These all look up to him as to 
an oracle, treasure up his cant phrases, echo his 
opinions about horses and other topics of jockey 
lore, and, above all, endeavor to imitate his air and 
carriage. Every ragamuffin that has a coat to his 
back thrusts his hands in the pockets, rolls in his 
gait, talks slang, and is an embryo Coachey. 

Perhaps it might be owing to the pleasing se- 
renity that reigned in my own mind that I fancied 
I saw cheerfulness in every countenance through- 
out the journey. A stage-coach, however, carries 
animation always with it, and puts the world in 
motion as it whirls along. The horn, sounded at 
the entrance of the village, produces a general 
bustle. Some hasten forth to meet friends ; some 
with bundles and bandboxes to secure places, and 
in the hurry of the moment can hardly take leave 
of the group that accompanies them. In the mean- 
time the coachman has a world of small commis- 
sions to execute. Sometimes he delivers a hare or 
pheasant ; sometimes jerks a small parcel or news- 



232 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 



paper to the door of a public house ; and some- 
times, with knowing leer and words of sly import, 
hands to some half-blushing, half-laughing house- 
maid an odd-shaped billet-doux from some rustic 
admirer. As the coach rattles through the village 
everyone runs to the window, and 3"ou have glances 
on every side of fresh country faces and blooming 
giggling girls. At the corners are assembled juntos 
of village idlers and wise men, who take their sta- 
tions there for the important purpose of seeing 
company pass ; but the sagest knot is generally at 
the blacksmith's, to whom the passing of the coach 
is an event fruitful of much speculation. The 
smith, with the horse's heel in his lap, pauses as 
the vehicle whirls by ; the Cyclops round the anvil 
suspend their ringing hammers and suffer the iron 
to grow cool ; and the sooty spectre in brown 
paper cap laboring at the bellows leans on the 
handle for a moment, and permits the asthmatic 
engine to heave a long-drawn sigh, while he glares 
through the murky smoke and sulphurous gleams 
of the smithy. 

Perhaps the impending holiday might have given 
a more than usual animation to the country, for it 
seemed to me as if everybody was in good looks 
and good spirits. Game, poultry, and other luxu- 
ries of the table were in brisk circulation in the 
villages ; the grocers', butchers', and fruiterers' 
shops were thronged with customers. The house- 
wives were stirring briskly about, putting their 
dwellings in order, and the glossy branches of holly 
with their bright-red berries began to appear at the 
windows. The scene brought to mind an old 
writer's account of Christmas preparation : " Now 



THE STAGE-COACH. 233 

capons and hens, besides turkeys, geese, and ducks, 
with beef and mutton, must all die, for in twelve days 
a multitude of people will not be fed with a little. 
Now plums and spice, sugar and honey, square it 
among pies and broth. Now or nev'er must music be 
in tune, for the youth must dance and sing to get 
them a heat, while the aged sit by the hre. The 
country maid leaves half her market, and must be 
sent again if she forgets a pack of cards on Chris 
mas Eve. Great is the contention of holly and i , / 
whether master or dame wears the breed., s. 
Dice and cards benefit the butler ; and if the c .ok 
do not lack wit, he will sweetly lick his fingers • 

I was roused from this fit of luxurious medita ion 
by a shout from my little travelling companiv/ns. 
They had been looking out of the coach-wind jws 
for the last few miles, recognizing every tree and 
cottage as they approached home, and now t lere 
was a general burst of joy. " There's John ! and 
there's old Carlo ! and there's Bantam ! " crie>.{ the 
happy little rogues, clapping their hands. 

At the end of a lane there was an old sober- 
looking servant in livery waiting for them ; he was 
accompanied by a superannuated pointer and by 
the redoubtable Bantam, a little old rat of a pony 
with a shaggy mane and long rusty tail, who stood 
dozing quietly by the roadside, little dreamirig of 
the bustling times that awaited him. 

I was pleased to see the fondness with which the 
little fellows leaped about the steady old footman 
and hugged the pointer, who wriggled his whole 
body for joy. But Bantam was the great object of 
interest ; all wanteci to mount at once, and it was 
with some difficulty that John arranged that chey 



234 THE SKETCH-BOOK, 

should ride by turns and the eldest should ride 
first. 

Off they set at last, one on the pony, with the 
dog bounding and barking before him, and the 
others holding John's hands, both tallying at once 
and overpowering him with questions about home 
and with school anecdotes. I looked after them 
with a feeling in which I do not kncfvv whether 
pleasure or melancholy predominated ; for I was 
reminded of those days when, like them, I liad 
known neither care nor sorrow and a holiday was 
the summit of earthly felicity. We stopped a few 
moments afterwards to water the horses, and on 
resuming our route a turn of the road brought us 
in sight of a neat country-seat. I could just dis- 
tinguish the forms of a lady and two young girls in 
the portico, and I saw my little comrades, with 
Bantam, Carlo, and old John, trooping along the 
carriage-road. I leaned out of the coach-window, 
in hopes of witnessing the happy meeting, but a 
grove of trees shut it from my sigiit. 

In the evening we reached a village where I had 
determined to pass the night. As we drove into 
the great gateway of the inn, I saw on one side the 
light of a rousing kitchen-fire beaming through a 
window. I entered, and admired, for the hundredth 
time, that picture of convenience, neatness, and 
broad honest enjoyment, the kitchen of an English 
inn. It was of spacious dimensions, hung round 
with copper and tin vessels highly polished, and 
decorated here and there with a Christmas green. 
Hams, tongues, and flitches of bacon were suspended 
from the ceiling ; a smoke-jack made its ceaseless 
clanking beside the fireplace, and a clock ticked in 



THE STAGE-COACH. 235 

one corner. A well-scoured deal table extended 
along one side of the kitchen, with a cold round of 
beef and other hearty viands upon it, over which 
two foaming tankards of ale seemed mounting 
guard. Travellers of inferior order were preparing 
to attack this stout repast, while others sat smoking 
and gossiping over their ale on two high-backed 
oaken settles beside the fire. Trim housemaids 
were hurrying backwards and forwards under the 
directions of a fresh bustling landlady, but still 
seizing an occasional moment to exchange a flip- 
pant word and have a rallying laugh with the group 
round the fire. The scene completely realized 
Poor Robin's humble idea of the comforts of mid- 
w^inter : 

Now trees their leafy hats do bare 
To reverence Winter's silver hair ; 
A handsome hostess, merry host, 
A pot of ale now and a toast, 
Tobacco and a good coal fire, 
Are things this season doth require.* 

I had not been long at the inn when a post-chaise 
drove up to the door. A }*oung gentleman stept 
out, and by the light of the lamps I caught a 
glimpse of a countenance which I thought I knew. 
I moved forward to get a nearer view, when his eye 
caught mine. I was not mistaken ; it was Frank 
Bracebridge, a sprightly, good-humored young 
fellow with whom I had once travelled on the 
Continent. Our meeting was extremely cordial, 
for the countenance of an old fellow-traveller always 
brings up the recollection of a thousand pleasant 
scenes, odd adventures, and excellent jokes. To 

* Poor Robin's Almanack, 1684. 



236 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

discuss all these in a transient interview at an inn 
was impossible ; and, finding that I was not pressed 
for time and was merely making a tour of observa- 
tion, he insisted that I should give him a day or 
two at his father's country-seat, to which he was 
going to pass the holidays and which lay at a few 
miles' distance. " It is better than eating a solitary 
Christmas dinner at an inn," said he, ''and I can 
assure you of a hearty welcome in something of the 
old-fashioned style." His reasoning was cogent, 
and I must confess the preparation I had seen for 
universal festivity and social enjoyment had made 
me feel a little impatient of my loneliness. I 
closed, therefore, at once with his invitation ; the 
chaise drove up to the door, and in a few moments 
I was on my way to the family mansion of the 
Bracebridges. 



CHRJSTMAS EVE. 237 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 

Saint Francis and Saint Benedight 
Blesse this liouse from \vicl<:ed wight ; 
From the night-mare and the goblin, 
That is liiglit good fellow Robin ; 
Keep it from all evil spirits. 
Fairies, weezels, rats, and ferrets : 

From curfew time 

To the next prime. 

Cartwright. 

It was a brilliant moonlight night, but extremely 
cold ; our chaise whirled rapidly over the frozeiv 
ground ; the postboy smacked his whip incessantly, 
and a part of the time his horses were on a gallop. 
" He knows where he is going," said my compan- 
ion, laughing, " and is eager to arrive in time for 
some of the merriment and good cheer of the serv- 
ants' hall. My father, you must know, is a 
bigoted devotee of the old school, and prides him- 
self upon keeping up something of old English hos- 
pitality. He is a tolerable specimen of what you 
will rarely meet with nowadays in its purity, the 
old English country gentleman ; for our men of 
fortune spend so much of their time in town, and 
fashion is carried so much into the country, that 
the strong rich peculiarities of ancient rural life are 
almost polished away. My father, however, from 
early years, took honest Peacham * for his text- 
book, instead of Chesterfield ; he determined in 

* Peacham' a Complete Gentleman^ 1622. 



23S TIII'l SA'ETCn-BOOK. 

his own mind that there was no condition more 
truly honorable and enviable than that of a country 
g;entleman on his paternal lands, and therefore 
passes the whole of his time on his estate. He is 
a strenuous advocate for the revival of the old 
rural games and holiday observances, and is deeply 
read in the writers, ancient and modern, who have 
treated on the subject. Indeed, his favorite range 
of reading is among the authors who flourished at 
least two centuries since, who, he insists, wrote and 
thought more like true Englishmen than any of 
their successors. He even regrets sometimes that 
he had not been born a few centuries earlier, when 
England was itself and had its peculiar manners 
and customs. As he lives at some distance from 
the main road, in rather a lonely part of the country, 
without any rival gentry near him, he has that most 
enviable of all blessings to an Englishman — an op- 
portunity of indulging the bent of his own humor 
without molestation. Being representative of the 
oldest family in the neighborhood, and a great part 
of the peasantry being his tenants, he is much 
looked up to, and in general is known simply by 
the appellation of ' The Squire ' — a title which has 
been accorded to the head of the family since time 
immemorial. I think it best to give you these 
hints about my worthy old father, to prepare you 
for any eccentricities that might otherwise appear 
absurd." 

We had passed for some time along the wall of a 
park, and at length the chaise stopped at the gate. 
It was in a heavy, magnificent old style, of iron 
bars fancifully wrought at top into flourishes and 
flowers. The huge square columns that supported 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 239 

the gate were surmounted by the family crest. 
Close adjoining was the porter's lodge, sheltered 
under dark fir trees and almost buried in shrub- 
bery. 

I'he postboy rang a large porter's bell, which 
resounded though the still frosty air, and was 
answered by the distant barking of dogs, with 
which the mansion-house seemed garrisoned. An 
old woman immediately appeared at the gate. As 
the moonlight fell strongly upon her, I had a full 
view of a little primitive dame, dressed very much 
in the antique taste, with a neat kerchief and 
stomacher, and her silver hair peeping from under 
a cap of snowy whiteness. She came curtseying 
forth, with many expressions of simple joy at seeing 
her young master. Her husband, it seemed, was 
up at the house keeping Christmas Eve in the 
servants' hall; they could not do without him, as 
he was the best hand at a song and story in the 
household. 

My friend proposed that we should alight and 
walk through the park to the hall, which was at 
no great distance, while the chaise should follow 
on. Our road wound through a noble avenue of 
trees, among the naked branches of which the moon 
glittered as she rolled through the deep vault of a 
cloudless sky. The lawn beyond was sheeted with 
a slight covering of snow, which here and there 
sparkled as the moonbeams caught a frosty crystal, 
and at a distance might be seen a thin transparent 
vapor stealing up from the low grounds and threaten- 
ing gradually to shroud (he landscape. 

My companion looked around him with transport. 
''How often," said he, ^' have I scampered up this 



^40 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

avenue on returning home on school vacations ! 
How often have I played under these trees when a 
boy ! I feel a degree of filial reverence for them, 
as we look up to those who have cherished us in 
childhood. My father was always scrupulous in 
exacting our holidays and having us around l.im 
on family festivals. He used to direct and supT- 
intend our games with die strictness that some 
parents do the studies of their children, l-ie \\ as 
very particulap that we should play the old English 
o-ames accordinir to their original form, and con- 

o o c^ ^ 

suited old books for precedent and authority for 
everv 'merrie disport;' yet I assure you there 
never was p.dintry so deligh^f^il. It was the 
policy of the good old gentleman to make his 
children feel that home was the happiest place in 
the world ; and I value this delicious home-feeling 
as one of the choicest gifts a parent could bestow." 
We were interrupted by the clamor of a troop of 
dogs of all sorts and sizes, '' mongrel, puppy, whelp, 
and hound, and curs of low degree," that, disturbed 
by the ring of the porter's bell and the rattling of 
the chaise, came loounding, open-mouthed, across 
the lawn. 

" '■ The little dogs and all, 

Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart, see, they bark at me ! ' " 

cried Bracebridge, laughing. At the sound of his 
voice the bark was changed into a yelp of delight, 
and in a moment he was surrounded and almost 
overpowered by the caresses of the faithful animals. 
We had now come in full view of the old family 
mansion, partly thrown in deep shadow and partly 
lit up by the cold moonshine. It was an irregular 



CHRISl'MAS EVE. 241 

building of some magnitude, and seemed to be of 
the architecture of different periods. One wing 
was evidently very ancient, with heavy stone- 
shafted bow windows jutting out and overrun with 
ivy, from among the foHage of which the small dia- 
mond-shaped panes of glass glittered with the 
moonbeams. The rest of the house was in the 
French taste of Charles the Second's time, having 
been repaired and altered, as my friend told me, 
by one of his ancestors who returned with that 
monarch at the Restoration. The grounds about 
the house were laid out in the old formal manner 
of artificial fiower-beds, clipped shrubberies, raised 
terraces, and heavy stone balustrades, ornamented 
with urns, a leaden statue or two, and a jet of water. 
The old gentleman, I was told, was extremely care- 
ful to preserve this obsolete finery in all its original 
state. PTe admired this fashion in gardening ; it 
had an air of magnificence, was courtly and. noble, 
and befitting good old family style. The boasted 
imitation of Nature in modern gardening had sprung 
up with modern republican notions, but did not 
suit a monarchical government ; it smacked of the 
levelling system. I could not help smiling at this 
introduction of politics into gardening, though I 
expressed some apprehension that I should find 
the old gentleman rather intolerant in his creed. 
Frank assured me, however, that it was almost the 
only instance in which he had ever heard his father 
meddle with politics ; and he believed that he had 
got this notion from a member of Parliament who 
once passed a few weeks with him. The squire 
was glad of any argument to defend his clipped 
vew trees and formal terraces, which had been 



2 42 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

occasionally attacked by modern landscape gar^ 
deners. 

As we approached the house we heard the sound 
of music, and now? and then a burst of laughter fronii 
one end of the building. This, Bracebridge said, 
must proceed from the servants' hall, where a greait 
deal of revelry w^as permitted, and even encouraged, 
by the squire throughout the twelve days of Christ- 
mas, provided everything was done conformably to 
ancient usage. Here were kept up the old games 
of hoodman blind, shoe the wdld mare, hot cockles, 
steal the white loaf, bob apple, and snap dragon ; 
the Yule-clog and Christmas candle were regularly 
burnt, and the mistletoe with its white berries hung 
up, to the imminent peril of all the pretty house- 
maids. "^ 

So intent w^ere the servants upon their sports 
that we had to ring repeatedly before we could 
make ourselves heard. On our arrival being an- 
nounced the squire came out to receive us, accom- 
panied by his two other sons — one a young officer 
in the army, home on a leave of absence ; the other 
an Oxonian, just from the university. The squire 
was a fine healthy-looking old gentleman, with sil- 
ver hair curling lightly round an open florid coun- 
tenance, in which the physiognomist, with the ad- 
vantage, like myself, of a previous hint or tw^o, 
might discover a singular mixture of whim and 
benevolence. 

The family meeting was warm and affectionate ; 

* The mistletoe is still hung up in farm-houses and kitchens 
at Christmas, and the young men have the privilege of kiss- 
ing the girls under it, pluckmg each time a berry from the 
bush. When the berries are all plucked the privilege ceases. 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 



243 



as the evening was far advanced, the squire would 
not permit us to cliange our travelling dresses, but 
ushered us at once to the company, which was as- 
sembled in a large old-fashioned hall. It was com- 
posed of different branches of a numerous family 
connection, where there were the usual proportion 
of old uncles and aunts, comfortable married dames, 
superannuated spinsters, blooming country cousins, 
half-fledged striplings, and bright-eyed boarding- 
school hoydens. They were variously occupied — 
some at a round game of cards ; others conversing 
around the fireplace ; at one end of the hall was a 
group of the young folks, some nearly grown up, 
others of a more tender and budding age, fully 
engrossed by a merry game ; and a profusion of 
wooden horses, penny trumpets, and tattered dolls 
about the floor showed traces of a troop of little 
t airy beings who, having frolicked through a happy 
day, had been carried off to slumber through a 
peaceful night. 

While the mutual greetings were going on be- 
tween young Bracebridge and his relatives I had 
time to scan the apartment. I have called it a hall, 
for so it had certainly been in old times, and the 
squire had evidently endeavored to restore it to 
something of its primitive state. Over the heavy 
projecting fireplace was suspended a picture of a 
warrior in armor, standing by a white horse, and on 
the opposite wall hung a helmet, buckler, and lance. 
At one end an enormous pair of antlers w^ere in- 
j»erted in the wall, the branches serving as hooks 
on which to suspend hats, whips, and spurs, and 
in the corners of the apartment were fowling-pieces, 
ii=hing-rods, and other sporting implements. The 



244 TH^ SKETCFf-BOOK. 

furniture was of the cumbrous workmanship of 
former days, though some articles of modern con- 
venience had been added and the oaken floor had 
been carpeted, so that the whole presented an odd 
mixture of parlor and hall. 

The grate had been removed from the wide over- 
v^dielming fireplace to make way for a fire of wood, 
in the midst of which was an enormous log glowing 
and blazing, and sending forth a vast volume of 
light and heat : this, I understood, was the Yule- 
clog, which the squire was particular in having 
brought in and illumined on a Christmas Eve, 
according to ancient custom.* 

* The Yule-clog is a great log of wood, sometimes the root 
of a tree, brought into the house with great ceremony on 
Christmas Eve, laid in the fireplace, and lighted with the 
brand of last year's clog. While it lasted there was great 
drinking, singing, and telling of tales. Sometimes it was ac- 
companied by Christmas candles ; but in the cottages the 
only light was from the ruddy blaze of the great wood fire. 
The Yule-clog was to burn all night; if it went out, it was 
considered a sign of ill luck. 

Herrick mentions it in one of his songs : 

Come, bring with a noise, 

My merrie, merrie boys, 
The ('hiistmas Log to the firing ; 

While my good dame, she 

Kids ye all be free, 
And drink to your hearts' desiring. 

The Yule-clog is still burnt in many farm-houses and 
kitchens in England, particularly in the north, and there are 
several superstitions connected with it among the peasantry. 
If a squinting person come to the house while it is burning, 
or a person barefooted, it is considered an ill omen. The 
brand remaining from the Yule-clog is carefully put away to 
light the next year's Christmas fire. 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 



245 



It Avas really delightful to see the old squire 
seated in his hereditary elbow-chair by the hospi- 
table fireside of his ancestors, and looking around 
him like the sun of a system, beaming warmth and 
gladness to every heart. Even the very dog that 
lay stretched at his feet, as he lazily shifted his 
position and yawned would look fondly up in his 
master's face, wag his tail against the floor, and 
stretch himself again to sleep, confident of kindness 
and protection. There is an emanation from the 
heart in genuine hospitality which cannot be 
described, but is immediately felt and puts the 
stranger at once at his ease. I had .not been 
seated many minutes by the comfortable hearth of 
the worthy old cavalier before I found myself as 
much at home as if I had been one of the family. 

Supper was announced shortly after our arrival. 
It was served up in a spacious oaken chamber, the 
panels of which shone with wax, and around which 
were several family portraits decorated with holly 
and ivy. Besides the accustomed lights, two great 
wax tapers, called Christmas candles, wreathed 
with greens, were placed on a highly polished 
beaufet among the family plate. The table was 
abundantly spread with substantial fare ; but the 
squire made his supper of frumenty, a dish made 
of wheat cakes boiled in milk with rich spices, be- 
ing a standing dish in old times for Christmas 
Eve. I was happy to find my old friend, minced, 
pie, in the retinue of the feast ; and, finding him to 
be perfectly orthodox, and that I need not be 
ashamed of my predilection, I greeted him with all 
the warmth wherewith we usually greet an old and 
very genteel acquaintance. 



24.6 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

The mirth of the company was greatly promoted 
by the humors of an eccentric personage whom 
Mr. Bracebridge always addressed with the quaint 
appellation of Master Simon. He was a tight 
brisk little man, with the air of an arrant old 
bachelor. His nose was shaped like the bill of a 
parrot ; his face slightly pitted with the small-pox, 
with a dry perpetual bloom on it, like a frostbitten 
leaf in autumn. He had an eye of great quickness 
and vivacity, with a drollery and lurking waggeiy 
of expression that was irresistible. He was evi- 
dently the wit of the family, dealing very much in 
sly jokes and innuendoes with the ladies, and mak- 
ing mfinite merriment by harping upon old themes, 
which, unfortunately, my ignorance of the family 
chronicles did not permit me to enjoy. It seeme J 
to be his great delight during supper to keep i 
young girl next to him in a continual agony of 
stifled laughter, in spite of her awe of the reprov- 
ing looks of her mother, who sat opposite. In- 
deed, he was the idol of the younger part of the 
company, who laughed at everything he said or did 
and at every turn of his countenance. I could not 
wonder at it ; for he must have been a miracle of 
accomplishments in their eyes. He could imitate 
Punch and Judy ; make an old woman of his hand, 
with the assistance of a burnt cork and pocket- 
handkerchief ; and cut an orange into such a ludi- 
crous caricature that the young folks were ready to 
die with laun;hino;. 

I was let briefly into his history by Frank Brace- 
bridge. He was an old bachelor, of a small inde- 
pendent income, which by careful management was 
sufficient for all his wants. He revolved through 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 247 

the family system like a vagrant comet in its orbit, 
sometimes visiting one branch, and sometimes an- 
other quite remote, as is often the case with gentle- 
men of extensive connections and small fortunes in 
England. He had a chirping, buoyant disposition, 
always enjoying the present moment ; and his 
frequent change of scene and company prevented 
his acquiring those rusty, unaccommodating habits 
with which old bachelors are so uncharitably 
charged. He was a complete family chronicle, 
being versed in the genealogy, history, and inter- 
marriages of the whole house of Bracebridge, 
which made him a great favorite with the old folks ; 
he was a beau of all the elder ladies and superan- 
nuated spinsters, among whom he was habitually 
considered rather a young fellow ; and he was 
master of the revels among the children, so that 
there was not a more popular being in the sphere 
in which he moved than Mr. Simon Bracebridge. 
Of late years he had resided almost entirely with 
the squire, to whom he had become a factotum, 
and whom he particularly delighted by jumping 
-with his humor in respect to old times and by hav- 
ing a scrap of an old song to suit every occasion. 
We had presently a specimen of his last-mentioned 
talent, for no sooner was supper removed and 
spiced wines and other beverages peculiar to the 
season introduced, than Master Simon was called 
on for a good old Christmas song. He bethought 
himself for a moment, and then, with a sparkle of 
the eye and a voice that was by no means bad, 
(excepting that it ran occasionally into a falsetto 
like the notes of a split reed, he quavered forth a 
r-uaint old ditty : 



248 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

Now Christmas is come, 

Let us beat up the drum, 
And call all our neighbors together; 

And when they appear, 

Let us make them such cheer, 
As will keep out the wind and the weather, &c. 

The supper had disposed every one to gayety, 
arid an old harper was summoned from the 
servants' hall, where he had been strummhig all 
the evening, and to all appearance comforting him- 
self with some of the squire's home-brewed. He 
was a kind of hanger-on, I was told, of the establish- 
ment, and, though ostensibly a resident of the 
village, was oftener to be found in the squire's 
kitchen than his own home, the old gentleman 
being fond of the sound of '' harp in hall." 

The dance, like most dances after supper, was a 
merry one : some of the older folks joined in it, 
and the squire himself figured down several couple 
with a partner widi whcjm he affirmed he had 
danced at every Christmas for nearly half a century. 
Master Simon, who seemed to be a kind of con- 
necting link between the old times and the new, 
and to be withal a little antiquated in the taste of 
his accomplishments, evidently piqued himself on 
his dancing, and was endeavoring to gain credit by 
the heel and toe, rigadoon, and other graces of the 
ancient school ; but he had unluckily assorted him- 
self with a little romping girl from boarding-school, 
who by her wild vivacity kept him continually on 
the stretch and defeated all his sober attempts at 
elegance : such are the ii\-sorted matches to which 
antique gentlemen are unfortunately prone. 

The voung Oxonian, on the contrary, had led 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 



249 



out one of his maiden aunts, on whom the rogue 
played a thousand little knaveries with impunity : 
he was full of practical jokes, and his delight was 
to tease his aunts and cousins, yet, like all madcap 
youngsters, he was a universal favorite among the 
women. The most interesting couple in the dance 
was the young officer and a ward of the squire's, a 
beautiful blushing girl of seventeen. From several 
shy glances which 1 had noticed in the course of 
the evening I suspected there was a little kindness 
growing up between them ; and indeed the young 
soldier was just the hero to captivate a romantic 
girl. He was tall, slender, and handsome, and, 
like most young British officers of hite years, had 
picked up various small accomplishments on the 
Continent : he could talk French and Italian, draw 
landscapes, sing very tolerably, dance divinely ; 
but, above all, he had been wounded at Waterloo. 
What girl of seventeen, well read in poetry and 
romance, could resist such a mirror of chivalry and 
perfection ? 

The moment the dance was over he caught up a 
guitar, and, lolling against the old marble fireplace 
in an attitude which I am half inclined to sus- 
pect was studied, began the little French air of 
the Troubadour. The squire, however, exclaimed 
against having anything on Christmas Eve but 
good old English ; upon which the young minstrel, 
casting up his eye for a moment as if in an effort of 
memory, struck into another strain, and with a 
charming air of gallantry gave Herrick's " Night- 
Piece to Julia : " 

Her eyes the glo.v-worm lend thee, 
The shootmg stars attend thee, 



250 THE Six ETCH-BOOK. 

And the elves also, 
Whose little eyes glow 
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. 

No Will-o'-the-Wisp mislight thee; 
Nor snake nor slow-worm bite thee 

But on thy way. 

Not making a stay, 
Since ghost there is none to affright thee. 

Then let not the dark thee cumber; 
What though the moon does slumber, 

The stars of the night 

Will lend thee their light. 
Like tapers clear Nyithout number. 

Then, Julia, let me woo thee, 
Thus, thus to come unto me, 

And when I shall meet 

Thy silvery feet, 
I My soul ril pour into thee. 

The sons^ raifrht or misiht not have been intended 
in compliment to the fair Julia, for so I found his 
partner was called ; she, however, was certainly- 
unconscious of any such application, for she never 
looked at the singer, but kept her eyes cast upon 
the floor. Her face was suffused, it is true, with a 
beautiful blush, and there was a gentle heaving of 
the bosom, but all that was doubtless caused by 
the exercise of the dance ; indeed, so great was her 
indifference that she amused herself with plucking 
to pieces a choice bouquet of hot-house flowers, 
and by the time the song was concluded the nose- 
gay lay in ruins on the floor. 

The party now broke up for the night with the 
kind-hearted old custom of shaking hands. As I 
passed through the hall on my way to my chamber, 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 



251 



the dying embers of the Yule-clog still sent forth a 
dusky glow, and had it not been the season when 
*' no spirit dares stir abroad," I should have been 
half tempted to steal from my room at midnight and 
peep whether the fairies might not be at their revels 
about the hearth. 

My chamber was in the old part of the mansion, 
the ponderous furniture of which might have been 
fabricated in the days of the giants. The room 
was panelled, with cornices of heavy carved work, 
in which flowers and grotesque faces were strangely 
intermingled, and a row of black-looking portraits 
stared mournfully at me from the walls. The bed 
was of rich though faded damask, with a lofty tester^ 
and stood in a niche opposite a bow window. I had 
scarcely got into bed when a strain of music seemed 
to break forth in the air just below the wmdow. I 
listened, and found it proceeded from a band which 
I concluded to be the Waits from some neighboring 
village. They went round the house, playing under 
the windows. I drew aside the curtains to hear 
them more distinctly. The moonbeams fell through 
the upper part of the casement ; partially lighting 
up the antiquated apartment. The sounds, as they 
receded, became more soft and aerial, and seemed 
to accord with the quiet and moonlight. I listened 
and listened — they became more and more tender 
and remote, and, as they gradually died away, m,y 
head sunk upon the pillow and I fell asleep.. 



252 



THE SKETCH-BOOIC 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 

Dark and dull night, flie hence away, 
And give the honor to this day 
That sees December turn'd to May. 

Why does the chilling winter's morne 
Smile like a field beset with corn ? 
Or smell like to a meade new-shorne, 
Thus on the sudden ? — come and see 
The cause why things thus fragrant be. 

Herrick. 

When I woke the next morning it seemed as if 
all Uie events of the preceding evening had been a 
dream, and nothing but the identity of the ancient 
chamber convinced me of their reality. While I 
lay musing on my pillow I heard the sound of little 
feet pattering outside of the door, and a whispering 
consultation. Presently a choir of small voices 
chanted forth an old Christmas carol, the burden 
of which was — 

Rejoice, our Saviour he was born 
On Christmas Day in the morning. 

I rose softly, slipt on my clothes, opened the 
door suddenly, and beheld one of the most beau- 
tiful little fairy groups that a painter could imagine. 
It consisted of a boy and two girls, the eldest not 
more than six, and lovely as seraphs. They were 
going the rounds of the house and singing at every 
chamber door, but my sudden appearance fright- 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 253 

ened them into nuitc l),ishfulness. They remained 
for a moment pl.ixiiiL;- on their lips with their 
fingers, and now and then stealing a shy glance 
from under their eyebrows, until, as if by one im- 
pulse, they scampered away, and as they turned 
an angle of the gallery I heard them laughing 
in triumph at their escape. 

Everything conspired to produce kind and happy 
feelings in lliis stron2:hold of old-fashioned hos- 
pitality. The window of my chamber looked out 
upon what in summer would have been a beautiful 
landscape. Tixiere was a sloping lawn,' a fine 
stream winding at the foot of it, and a tract of park 
beyond, with noble clumps of trees and herds of 
deer. At a distance was a neat hamlet, with the 
smoke from the cottage chimneys hanging over it, 
and a church with its dark spire in strong relief 
against the clear cold sky. The house was sur- 
rounded with evergreens, according to the English 
custom, wdiich would have given almost an appear- 
ance of summer; but the morning was extremely 
frosty ; the light vapor of the preceding evening had 
been precipitated by the cold, and covered all the 
trees and every blade of grass with its fine crystal- 
izations. The rays of a bright morning sun had a 
dazzling effect among the glittering foliage. A 
robin, perched upon the top of a mountain-ash 
that hung its clusters of red berries just before my 
window, was basking himself in the sunshine and 
piping a few querulous notes, and a peacock was 
displaying all the glories of his train and strutting 
with the pride and gravity of a Spanish grandee 
on the terrace walk below. 

I had scarcely dressed myself when a servant 



254 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 



appeared to invite me to family prayers. He 
showed me the way to a small chapel in the old. 
wing of the house, where I found the principal 
part of the family already assembled in a kind of 
gallery furnished with cushions, hassocks, and large 
prayer-books ; the servants were seated on benches 
below. The old gentleman read prayers from a 
■desk in front of the gallery, and Master Simon 
acted as clerk and made the responses ; and I must 
do him the justice to say that he acquitted himself 
with great graiJ^ity and decorum. 

The servi^ was followed by a Christmas carol, 
which Mr. Bracebridge himself had constructed 
from a poem of his favorite author, Herrick, and it 
had been adapted to an old church melody by 
Master Simon. As there were several good voices 
among the household, the effect was extremely 
pleasing, but I was particularly gratified by the 
exaltation of heart and sudden sally of grateful 
feeling with which the worthy squire delivered one 
stanza, his eye glistening and his voice rambling 
out of all the bounds of time and tune: 

" 'Tis Thou that crown' st my glittering hearth 

With guiltless mirth, 
And givest me Wassaile bowles to drink 

Spiced to the brink ; 
Lord, 'tis Thy plenty-dropping hand 

That soiles my land : 
And giv'st me for my bushell sowne, 

Twice ten for one." 

I afterwards understood that early morning 
service was read on every Sunday and saint's day 
throughout the year, either by Mr. Bracebridge or 
by some member of the family. It was once almost 



CHRIS TMA S DAY. 255 

universally the case at the seats of the nobility and 
gentry of England, and it is much to be regretted 
that the custom is falling into neglect ; for the 
dullest observer must be sensible of the order and 
serenity prevalent in those households where the 
occasional exercise of a beautiful form of worship 
in the morning gives, as it were, the keynote to 
every temper for the day and attunes every spirit 
to harmony. 

Our breakfast consisted of what the squire de- 
nominated true old English fare. He indulged in 
some bitter lamentations over modern breakfasts 
of tea and toast, which he censured as among the 
causes of modern effeminacy and weak nerves and 
the decline of old English heartiness ; and, though 
he admitted them to his table to suit the palates of 
his guests, yet there was a brave display of cold 
meats, wine, and ale on the sideboard. 

After breakfast I walked about the grounds with 
Frank Bracebridge and Master Simon, or Mr. 
Simon, as he was called by everybody but the 
squire. We were escorted by a number of gentle- 
manlike dogs, that seemed loungers about the 
establishment, from the frisking spaniel to the 
steady old stag-hound, the last of which was of a 
race that had been in the family time out of mind ; 
they were all obedient to a dog-whistle which hung 
to Master Simon's buttonhole, and in the midst of 
their gambols would glance an eye occasionally 
upon a small switch he carried in his hand. 

The old mansion had a still more venerable look 
in the yellow sunshine than by pale moonlight; 
and I could not but feel the force of the squire's 
idea that the formal terraces, heavily moulded 



V, I THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

ba ustrades, and clipped yew trees carried with 
them an nir of proud aristocracy. There appeared 
to be an unusual number of peacocks about the 
place, and I was making some remarks upon what 
I termed a fiock of them that were basking under 
^ sunny wall, waien I was gently corrected in my 
phraseology by Master Simon, who told me that 
According to the most ancient and approved treatise 
;on hunting I must say a muster of peacocks. " In 
<he same way," added he, with a slight air of 
pedantry, " we say a thght of doves or swallows, a 
Oevy of quails, a herd of deer, of wrens, or cranes, 
a skulk of foxes, or a building of rooks." He went 
on to inform me tliat, according to Sir Anthony 
Fitzrjerbert, we ought to ascribe to this bird " both 
undtrstanding and glory; for, being praised, he 
will )r'-csently set up his tail, chiefly against the sun, 
to the intent you may the better behold the beauty 
there<_f. But at the fall of the leaf, when his tai'l 
falleth, he will mourn and hide himself in corners 
till his tail come again as it was." 

I could not help smiling at this display of small 
erudition on so whimsical a subject ; but I found 
that the peacocks were birds of some consequence 
at the hall, for Frank Bracebridge informed me that 
they were great favorites with his father, v/ho w^as 
extremely careful to keep up the breed ; partly 
because they belonged to chivalrv, and were in 
great request at the stately banquets of the olden 
time, and partly because they had a pomp and 
magnificence about them highly becoming an old 
family mansion. Nothi ng,« he was accustomed to 
say, had an air of greater state and dignity than a 
peacock perched upon an antique stone balustrade-. 



CHRISTMAS DA Y. 25/ 

Master Simon had now to hurry off, having aw 
appointment at the parish church with the village 
choristers, who were to perform some music of his 
selection. There was something extremely agree- 
able in the cheerful flow of animal spirits of the 
little man ; and I confess I had been somewhat 
surprised at his apt quotations from authors who 
certainly were not in the range of every-day read- 
ing. I mentioned this last circumstance to Frank 
Bracebridge, who told me with a smile that Master 
Simon's whole stock of erudition was confined to 
some half a dozen old authors, which the squire 
had put into his h:lnds, and which he read over and 
over whenever he had a studious fit, as he some- 
times had on a rainy day or a long winter evening. 
Sir Anthony Fitzherbert's Book of Husbandry^ 
Markham's Country Contenhjienfs, the Tretyse of 
Hunting, by Sir Thomas Cockayne, Knight, Isaac 
Walton's Angler, and two or three more such ancient 
worthies of the pen were his standard authorities \ 
and, like all men who know but a few books, he 
looked up to them with a kind of idolatry and 
quoted them on all occasions. As to his songs, 
they were chiefly picked out of old books in ihe 
squire's library, and adapted to tunes that were 
popular among the choice spirits of the last cen- 
tury. His practical application of scraps of litera- 
ture, however, had caused him to be looked upon 
as a prodigy of book-knowledge by all the grooms, 
huntsmen, and small sportsmen of the neighbor- 
hood. 

While we were talking we heard the distant toll 
of the village bell, and I was told that the squire 
was a little particular in having his household at 
17 



258 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

church on a Christmas morning, considering it a 
day of pouring out of thanks and rejoicing ~ for, 
as old Tusser observed, — 

" At Christmas be merry, and thankful tuithal. 
And feast thy poor neighbors, the great with the small." 

" If you are disposed to go to church,'' said 
Frank Bracebridge, " I can promise you a specimen 
of my cousin Simon's musical achievements. As 
the church is destitute of an organ, he has formed 
a band from the village amateurs, and established 
a, musical club for their improvement ; he has also 
sorted a choir, as he sorted my father's pack of 
hounds, according to the directions of Jervaise 
Markham in his Cou7itry Contentmenis : for the bass 
he has sought out all the ' deep, solemn mouths,' 
and for the tenor the 'loud-ringing mouths,' among 
the country bumpkins, and for ' sweet-mouths,' he 
has culled with curious taste among the prettiest 
lasses in the neighborhood ; though these last, he 
affirms, are the most difficult to keep in tune, your 
pretty female singer being exceedingly wayward 
and capricious, and very liable to accident." 

As the morning, though frosty, was remarkably 
fine and clear, the most of the family walked to the 
church, which was a very old building of gray stone, 
and stood near a village about half a mile from the 
park gate. Adjoining it was a low snug parsonage 
which seemed coeval with the church. The front 
of it was perfectly matted with a yew tree that had 
been trained against its walls, through the dense 
foliage of which apertures had been formed to 
admit light into the small antique lattices. As we 



CFIRISTMAS DA Y. 



259 



passed this sheltered nest the parson issued forth 
and preceded us. 

I had expected to see a sleek well-conditioned 
pastor, such as is often found in a snug living in 
the vici-nity of a rich patron's table, but I was dis- 
appointed. The parson was a little, meagre, black- 
looking man, with a grizzled wig that was too wide 
and stood off from each ear ; so that his head 
seemed to have shrunk away within it, like a dried 
filbert in its shell. He wore a rusty coat, with 
great skirts and pockets that would have held the 
church Bible and prayer-book : and his small legs 
seemed still smaller from being planted in large 
shoes decorated With enormous buckles. 

I was informed by Frank Bracebridge that the 
parson had been a chum of his father's at Oxford, 
and had received this living shortly after the latter 
had come to his estate. He was a complete black- 
letter hunter, and would scarcely read a work 
printed in the Roman character. The editions of 
Caxton and \\\nkyn de Worde were his delight, 
and he was indefatigable in his researches after 
such old English writers as have fallen into oblivion 
from their worthlessness. In deference, perhaps, 
to the notions of Mr. Bracebridge he had made 
diligent investigations into the festive rites and 
holiday customs of former times, and had been as 
zealous in the inquiry as if he had been a boon 
companion ; but it was merely with that plodding 
spirit with which men of adust temperament follow 
up any track of stud}^ merely because it is denom- 
inated learning ; indifferent to its intrinsic nature, 
whether it be the illustration of the wisdom or of 
the ribaldry and obscenity of antiquity. He had 



2 6o THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

pored over these old volumes so intensely that they 
seemed to have been reflected into his countenance ; 
which, if the face be indeed an index of the mind, 
might be compared to a title-page of black-letter. 

On reaching the church-porch we found the 
parson rebuking the gray-headed sexton for having 
used mistletoe among the greens with which the 
church was decorated. It was, he observed, an 
unholy plant, profaned by having been used by the 
Druids in their m3-stic ceremonies ; and, though it 
might be innocently employed in the festive orna- 
menting of halls and kitchens, yet it had been 
deemed by the Fathers of the Church as unhallowed 
and totally unfit for sacred purposes. So tenacious 
was he on this point that the poor sexton was 
obliged to strip down a great part of the humble 
trophies of his taste before the parson would con- 
sent to enter upon the service of the da}^ 

The interior of the church was venerable, but 
simple ; on the walls were several mural monu- 
ments of the Bracebridges, and just beside the 
altar was a tomb of ancient workmanship, on which 
lay the effigy of a warrior in armor with his legs 
crossed, a sign of his having been a crusader. I 
was told it was one' of the family who had signalized 
himself in the Holy Land, and the same whose 
picture hung over the fireplace in the hall. 

During service Master Simon stood up in the 
pew and repeated the responses very audibly, 
evincing that kind of ceremonious devotion punc- 
tually observed by a gentleman of the old school 
and a man of old family connections. I observed 
too that he turned over the leaves of a folio 
prayer-book with something of a flourish ; possibly 



CIIRJS T. \IA S DAY. 2 6 r 

to show off an enormous seal-ring which enriched 
one of his fingers and which had the look of a^-family 
relic. But he was evidently most solicitous about 
the musical part of the service, keeping his eye 
fixed intently on the choir, and beating time with 
much gesticulation and emphasis. 

The orchestra was in a small gallery, and pre- 
sented a most whimsical grouping of heads piled 
one above the other, among which I particularly 
noticed that of the village tailor, a pale fellow with 
a retreating forehead and chin, who played on the 
clarinet, and seemed to have blown his face to a 
point; and there was another, a short pursy man, 
stooping and laboring at a bass-viol, so as to show 
nothing but the top of a round bald head, like the 
^§S o^ ^^^ ostrich. There were two or three pretty 
faces among the female singers, to which the keen 
air of a frosty morning had given a bright rosy tint ; 
but the gentlemen choristers had evidentlv been 
chosen, like old Cremona fiddles, more for tone 
than looks ; and as several had to sing from the 
same book, there were clusterings of odd physiog- 
nomies not unlike those groups of cherubs we 
sometimes see on country tombstones. 

The usual services of the choir were managed 
tolerably well, the vocal parts generally lagging a 
little behind the instrumental, and some loitering 
fiddler now and then making up for lost time by 
travelling over a passage with prodigious celerity 
and clearing more bars than the keenest fox-hunter 
to be in at the death. But the great trial was an 
anthem that had been prepared and arranged by 
Master Simon, and on which he had founded great 
expe^-tatiniv Unluckib" thei'e \^'aK a blijr/:5^r o^ 



262 THE SKETCII-BOOA. 

the very outset : the musicians became flurried ; 
Master Simon was in a fever ; everything went on 
lamely and irregularly until they came to a chorus 
beginning, " Now let us sing with one accord," 
which seemed to be a signal for parting company : 
all became discord and confusion : each shifted 
for himself, and got to the end as well — or, rather, 
as soon — as he could, excepting one old chorister 
in a pair of horn spectacles bestriding and pinching 
a long sonorous nose, who happened to stand a 
little apart, and, being wrapped up in his own 
melody, kept on a quavering course, wriggling his 
head, ogling his book, and winding all up by a 
nasal solo of at least three bars' duration. 

The parson gave us a most erudite sermon on 
the rites and ceremonies of Christmas, and the 
propriety of observing it not mereh^ as a day of 
thanksgiving but of rejoicing, supporting the 
correctness of his opinions by the earliest usages 
of the Church, and enforcing them by the authori- 
ties of Theophilus of Ccesarea, St. Cyprian, St. 
Chrysostom, St. Augustine, and a cloud more of 
saints and fathers, from whom he made copious 
quotations. I was a little at a loss to perceive the 
necessity of such a mighty array of forces to main- 
tain a point which no one present seemed inclined 
to dispute ; but I soon found that the good man 
had a legion of ideal adversaries to contend with, 
having in the course of his researches on the subject 
of Christmas got completely embroiled in the 
s^'ctarian controversies of the Revolution, when the 
Puritans made such a fierce assault upon the 
ceremonies of the Church, and poor old Christ- 
mas was driven out of the land by proclamation 



CHRISTMAS DA Y. 263 

of Parliament/'" The worthy parson lived but with 
times past, and knew but little of the present. 

Shut up among worm-eaten tomes in the retire- 
ment of his antiquated little study, the pa2,es of old 
times were to him as the gazettes of the day, while 
the era of 'the Revolution was mere modern history. 
He forgot that nearly two centuries had elapsed 
since the hery persecution of poor mince-pie through- 
out the land ; when plum porridge was denounced as 
" mere popery," and roast beef as anti-christian, and 
that Christmas had been brought in again triumph- 
antly with the merry court of King Charles at the 
Restoration. He kindled into w^armth with the 
ardor of his contest and the host of imaginary foes 
with whom he had to combat ; he had a stubborn 
conflict with old Prynne and two or three other for- 
gotten champions of the Roundheads on the subject 
of Christmas festivity ; and concluded by urging his 
hearers, in the most solemn and affecting manner, 
to stand to the traditional customs of their fathers 
and feast and make merry on this joyful anniver- 
sary of the Church. 

* From the " Flyinc: Eagle," a small gazette, published De- 
cember 24, 1652 : " The House spent much time this day 
about the business of the Navy, for settling the affairs at sea, 
and before they rose, were presented with a terrible remon- 
strance against Christmas day, grounded upon divine Scrip- 
tures, 2 Cor. V. 16; I Cor. xv. 14, 17; and in honor of the 
Lord's Day, grounded upon these Scriptures, John xx. i ; 
Rev. i. 10; Psalms cxviii. 24; Lev. xxiii. 7, 1 1 ; Mark xv. 8: 
Psalms Ixxxiv. 10, in which Christmas is called Anti-christ's 
masse, and those Masse-mongers and Papists who observe it, 
etc. In consequence of which parliament spent some time 
in consultation about the abolition of Christmas day, pas^^ed 
orders to that effect, and resolved to sit on the following day, 
A'liich was commonly called Christmas day." 



264 7VIE SKETCH-BOOK. 

I have seldom known a sermon attended appar- 
ently with more immediate effects, for on leaving 
the church the congregation seemed one and all 
possessed with the gayety of spirit so earnestly en- 
joined by their pastor. The elder folks gathered 
in knots in the churchyard, greeting and shaking 
hands, and the children ran about crving: Ule ! 
Ule ! and repeating some uncouth rhymes,* which 
the parson, who had joined us, informed me had 
been handed down from days of yore. The vil- 
lagers doffed their hats to the squire as he passed, 
giving him the good wishes of the season with 
every appearance of heartfelt sincerity, and were 
invited by him to the hall to take something to 
keep out the cold of the weather; and I heard 
blessings uttered by several of the poor, which 
convinced me that, in the mjdst of his enjoyments, 
the worthy old cavalier had not forgotten the true 
Christmas virtue of charity. 

On our way homeward his heart seemed over- 
flowed with generous and happy feelings. As we 
passed over a rising ground which commanded 
something of a prospect, the sounds of rustic mer- 
riment now and then reached our ears : the squire 
paused for a few moments and looked around with 
an air of inexpressible benignity. The beauty of 
the day was of itself sufficient to inspire philan- 
thropy. Notwithstanding the frostiness of the 
morning the sun in his cloudless journey had ac- 
quired sufficient power to melt away the thin cover- 
ing of snow from every southern declivity, and to 

* " Ule ! Ule ! 

Three puddings in a pule ; 
Crack nuts and cry ule ! " 



CHRIS TMA S DAY. 265 

bring out the living green which adorns an English 
landscape even in mid- winter. Large tracts of smil- 
ing verdure contrasted with the dazzling whiteness 
of the shaded slopes and hollows. Every sheltered 
bank on which the broad rays rested yielded its 
silver rill of cold and limpid water, glittering 
through the dripping grass, and sent up slight ex- 
halations to contribute to the thin haze that huns: 
just above the surface of the earth. There was 
something truly cheering in this triumph of warmth 
and verdure over the frostv thraldom of winter ; it 
was, as the squire observed, an emblem of Christ- 
mas hospitality breaking through the chills of cere- 
mony and selfishness and thawing every heart into 
a flow. He pointed with pleasure to the indica- 
tions of good cheer reeking from the chimneys of 
the comfortable farm-houses and low thatched cot- 
tages. " I love," said he, " to see this day well 
kept by rich and poor ; it is a great thing to have 
one day in the year, at least, when you are sure of 
being welcome wherever you go, and of having, 
as it were, the world all thrown open to you ; and I 
am almost disposed to join with Poor Robin in his 
malediction on every churlish enemy to this honest 
festival : 

'"Those who at Christmas do repine, 
And would fain hence dispatch him, 
May they with old Duke Humphry dine, 
Or else may Squire Ketch catch 'em.' " 

The squire went on to lament the deplorable 
decay of the games and amusements which were 
once prevalent at this season among the lower 
orders and countenanced by the higher, when the 
old halls of castles and manor-houses were thrown 



266 TL'E SKETCII-BOOA'. 

open at daylight ; when the tables were covered 
with brawn and beef and humming ale ; when the 
harp and the carol resounded all day long ; and 
when rich and poor were alike welcome to enter 
and make merry.* " Our old games and local cus- 
toms," said he, "had a great effect in making the 
peasant fond of his home, and the promotion of 
them by the gentry made him fond of his lord. 
Thev made the times merrier and kinder and better, 
and I can truly say, with one of our old poets, 

" ' I like them well : the curious preciseness 
And all-pretended gravity of those 
That seek to banish hence these harmless sjDorts, 
Have thrust away much ancient honesty.' " 

" The nation," continued he, " is altered ; we 
have almost lost our simple true-hearted peasantry. 
They have broken asunder from the higher classes, 
and seem to think their interests are separate. 
They have become too knowing, and begin to read 
newspapers, listen to ale-house politicians, and talk 
of reform. I think one mode to keep them in good- 
humor in these hard times would be for the nobility 
and gentry to pass more time on their estates, 
mingle more among the country-people, and set the 
merry old English games going again." 

* " An English gentleman, at the opening of the great day 
— /. e. on Christmas Day in the morning — had all his tenants 
and neighbors enter his hall by daybreak. The strong beer 
was broached, and the black-jacks went plentifully about, 
with toast, sugar and nutmeg, and good Cheshire cheese. 
The Hackin (the great sausage) must be boiled by daybreak, 
or else two young men must take the maiden (/'. e. the cook) 
by the arms and run her round the market-place till she is 
shamed of her laziness." — Roiuid about our Sea-Coal Fire, 



CHRIS TATA S DAY. 267 

Such was the good squire's project for mitigating 
pubhc discontent : and, indeed, he had once at- 
tempted to put his doctrine in practice, and a few 
years before had kept open house during the holi- 
days in the old style. The country-peoi)le, how- 
ever, did not understand how to play their parts in 
the scene of hospitality ; many uncouth circum- 
stances occurred ; the manor was overrun by all 
the vagrants of the country, and more beggars 
drawn into the neighborhood in one week than 
the parish officers could get rid of in a year. Since 
then he had contented himself with inviting the 
decent part of the neighboring peasantry to call at 
the hall on Christmas Day, and with distributing 
beef, and bread, and ale among the poor, that they 
might make merry in their own dwellings. 

We had not been long home when the sound of 
music was heard from a distance. A band of 
country lads, without coats, their shirt-sleeves fan- 
cifully tied with ribbons, their hats decorated with 
greens, and clubs in their hands, was seen advanc- 
ing up the avenue, followed by a large number of 
villagers and peasantry. They stopped before the 
hall door, where the music struck up a peculiar 
air, and the lads performed a curious and intricate 
dance, advancing, retreating, and striking their clubs 
together, keeping exact time to the music; while 
one, whimsically crowned with a fox's skin, the tail 
of which flaunted down his back, kept capering 
round the skirts of the dance and rattling a Christ- 
mas box with many antic gesticulations. 

The squire eyed this fanciful exhibition with 
great interest and delight, and gave me a full ac- 
count of its origin, which he traced to the times 



263 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

when the Romans held possession of the island, 
plainly proving that this was a lineal descendant 
of the sword dance of the ancients. " It was now," 
he said, " nearly extinct, but he had accidentally 
met with traces of it in the neighborhood, and had 
encouraged its revival ; though, to tell the truth, it 
was too apt to be followed up by the rough cudgel 
play and broken heads in the evening." 

After the dance was concluded the whole party 
was entertained with brawn and beef and stout 
home-brewed. The squire himself mingled among 
the rustics, and was received with awkward demon- 
strations of deference and regard. It is true I per- 
ceived two or three of the younger peasants, as 
they were raising their tankards to their mouths, 
when the squire's back was turned making some- 
thing of a grimace, and giving each other the wink ; 
but the moment they caught my eye they pulled 
grave faces and were exceedingly demure. With 
Master Simon, however, they all seemed more at 
their ease. His varied occupations and amuse- 
ments had made him well known throughout the 
neighborhood. He was a visitor at every farm- 
house and cottage, gossiped with the farmers and 
their wives, romped with their daughters, and, like 
that type of a vagrant bachelor, the humblebee, 
tolled the sweets from all the rosy lips of the 
country ^ound. 

The bashfulness of the guests soon gave way 
before good cheer and affability. There is some- 
thing genuine and affectionate in the gayety of the 
lower orders when it is excited by the bounty and 
familiarity of those above them ; the warm glow of 
gratitude enters into their mirth, and a kind word 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 



1 09 



or a small pleasantry frankly uttered by a patron 
gladdens the heart of the dependant more than oil 
and wine. When the squire had retired the merri- 
ment increased, and there was much joking and 
laughter, particularly between Master Simon and 
a hale, ruddy-faced, white-headed farmer who ap- 
peared to be the wit of the village ; for I observed 
all his companions to wait with open mouths for 
his retorts, and burst into a gratuitous laugh before 
they could well understand them. 

The whole house indeed seemed abandoned to 
merriment : as I passed to my room to dress for 
dinner, I heard the sound of music in a small 
court, and^ looking through a window that com- 
manded it, I perceived a band of wandering musi- 
cians with pandean pipes and tambourine ; a pretty 
coquettish housemaid was dancing a jig with a 
smart country lad, while several of the other serv- 
ants were looking on. In the midst of her sport 
the girl caught a glimpse of my face at the window, 
and, coloring up, ran oif with an air of roguish 
affected confusion. 



270 THE SKETCn-BOOK. 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 

Lo, now is come our joyful'st feast ! 

Let every man be jolly. 
Eache roome with yvie leaves is drest, 

And every post with holly. 
Now all our neighbours' chimneys smoke, 

And Christmas blocks are burning ; 
Their ovens they with l^ak't meats choke 
And all their spits are turning. 
Without the door let sorrow lie, 
And if, for cold, it hap to die, 
Wee'l bury 't in a Christmas pye, 
And evermore be merry. 

Withers, Jjivenilia. 

I HAD finished my toilet, and was loitering with 
Frank Bracebridge in the library, when we heard a 
distant thwacking sound, which he informed me 
was a signal for the serving up of the dinner. The 
squire kept up old customs in kitchen as well as 
hall, and the rolling-pin, struck upon the dresser 
by the cook, summoned the servants to carry in the 
meats. 

Just in this nick the cook knock' d thrice, 
And all the waiters in a trice 

His summons did obey ; 
Each serving-man, with disli in hand, 
March'd boldly up, like our train-band, ' 

Presented and away. * 

The dinner was served up in the great hall, where 
the squire always held his Christmas banquet. A 

* vSir John Suckling. 



THE CHRIS TMA S DINXER. 2 7 1 

blazing crackling fire of logs had been heaped on 
to warm the spacious apartment, and the flame went 
sparkling and wreathing up the wide-mouthed chim- 
ney. The great picture of the crusader and his 
white horse had been profusely decorated with 
greens for the occasion, and holly and ivy had like- 
wise been wreathed round the helmet and weapons 
on the opposite wall, which 1 understood were the 
arms of the same warrior. I must own, by the by, 
I had strong doubts about the authenticity of the 
painting and armor as having belonged to the 
crusader, they certainly having the stamp of more 
recent days ; but I was told that the painting had 
been so considered time out of mind ; and that as 
to the armor, it had been found in a lumber-room 
and elevated to its present situation by the squire, 
who at once determined it to be the armor of the 
family hero ; and as he was absolute authority on 
all such subjects in his own household, the matter 
had passed into current acceptation. A sideboard 
was set out just under this chivalric trophy, on 
which was a display of plate that might have vied 
(at least in variety) with Belshazzar's parade of the 
vessels of the temple : '' flagons, cans, cups, beakers, 
goblets, basins, and ewers," the gorgeous utensils 
of good companionship that had graduallv accu- 
mulated through many generations of jovial house- 
keepers. Before these stood the two Yule candles, 
beaming like two stars of the first magnitude ; other 
lights were distributed in branches, and the whole 
array glittered like a firmament of silver. 

We were ushered into this banqueting scene with 
the sound of minstrelsy, the old harper being seated 
on a stool beside the fireplace and twanging his 



272 



THE SKETCH-BOOK, 



instrument with a vast deal more power than mel- 
ody. Never did Christmas board display a more 
goodly and gracious assemblage of countenances ; 
those who were not handsome were at least happy, 
and happiness is a rare improver of your hard- 
favored visage. I always consider an old English 
family as well worth studying as a collection of 
Holbein's portraits o*- Albert Diirer's prints. There 
is much antiquarian lore to be acquired, much 
knowledge of the physiognomies of former times. 
Perhaps it may be from having continually before 
their eyes those rows of old family portraits, with 
which the mansions of this country are stocked ; 
certain it is that the quaint features of antiquity 
are often most faithfully perpetuated in these ancient 
lines, and I have traced an old family nose through 
a whole picture-gallery, legitimately handed down 
from generation to generation almost from the time 
of the Conquest. Something of the kind was to be 
observed in the worthy company around me. Many 
of their faces had evidently originated in a Gothic 
age, and been merely copied by succeeding gen- 
erations; and there was one little girl in particular, 
of staid demeanor, with a high Roman nose and an 
antique vinegar aspect, who was a great favorite of 
the squire's, being, as he said, a Bracebridge all 
over, and the very counterpart of one of his ances- 
tors who figured in the court of Henry VHI. 

The parson said grace, which was not a short 
familiar one, such as is commonly addressed to the 
Deity in these miceremonious days, but a long, 
courtly, well-worded one of the ancient school. 
There was now a pause, as if something was ex- 
pected, when suddenly the butler entered the hall 



THE CHRISTMAS DINiYER. 273 

>rith some degree of bustle : he was attended by a 
servant on each side with a large wax-light, and bore 
a silver dish on which was an enormous pig's head 
decorated with rosemary, with a lemon in its mouth, 
which was placed with great formality at the head 
of the table. The moment this pageant made its 
appearance the harper struck up a flourish ; at the 
conclusion of which the young Oxonian, on receiv- 
ing a hint from the squire, gave, with an air of the 
most comic gravity, an old carol, the first verse of 
which was as follows • 

Caput apri defero 

Reddens laudes Domino. 
The boar's head in hand bring I, 
With gai lands gay and rosemary. 
1 pray you all synge merily 

Qui estis in convivio. 

Though prepared to witness many of these little 
eccentricities, from being apprised of the peculiar 
hobby of mine host, yet I confess the parade with 
which so odd a dish was introduced somewhat per- 
plexed me, until I gathered from the conversation 
of the squire and the parson that it was meant to 
represent the bringing in of the boar's head, a dish 
formerly served up with much ceremony and the 
sound of minstrelsy and song at great tables on 
Christmas Dav. " I like the old custom," said the 
squire, "not merely because it is stately and pleas- 
ing in itself, but because it was observed at the col- 
lege at Oxford at which I was educated. When I 
hear the old song chanted it brings to mind the time 
when I was young and gamesome, and the noble 
old college hall, and my fellow-students loitering 



2 74 '^^^^ SKETCH-BOOK. 

about in their black gowns ; many of whom, poo;' 
lads ! are now in their graves." 

The parson, however, whose mind was nCt 
haunted by such associations, and who was alwayii 
more taken up with the text than the sentiment, 
objected to the Oxonian's version of the carol, which 
he affirmed was different from that sung at college. 
He went on, with the dry perseverance of a com,- 
mentator, to give the college reading, accompanied 
by sundry annotations, addressing himself at first 
to the company at large ; but, finding their attt^n- 
tion gradually diverted to other talk and other ob- 
jects, he lowered his tone as his number of auditors 
diminished, until he concluded his remarks in an 
under voice to a fat-headed old gentleman next him 
who was silently engaged in the discussion of a hugi^ 
plateful of turkey.^ 

The table was literally loaded with good cheei, 
and presented an epitome of country abundance in 
this season of overflowing larders. A distinguished 
post was allotted to " ancient sirloin," as mine host 
termed it, being, as he added, "the standard of old 
English hospitality, and a joint of goodly presence, 
and full of expectation." There were several 
dishes quaintly decorated, and which had evidently 
something traditional in their embellishments, but 

* The old ceremony of serving up the boar's head on 
Christmas Day is still observed in the hall of Queen's Col- 
lege, Oxford. I was favored by the parson with a copy of 
the carol as now sung, and as it may be acceptable to such 
of my readers as are curious in these grave and learned mat- 
ters, I give it entire : 

The boar's head in hand bear I, 
Bedeck'd with bavs and rosemary ; 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 275 

ibout which, as I did not Uke to appear over- 
:urious, I asked no questions. 

I could not, however, but notice a pie magnifi- 
cently decorated with peacock's featliers, in imita- 
>:ion of the tail of that bird, which overshadowed a 
considerable tract of the table. This, the squire 
confessed with some little hesitation, was a pheasant 
pie, though a peacock pie was certainly the most 
authentical ; but there had been such a mortality 
among the peacocks this season that he could not 
prevail upon himself to have one killed.^ 

And I pray you, my masters, be merry 
Quot estis in convivio 
Caput apri defero, 
Reddens la-udes domino. 

The boar's head, as I understand, 
Is the rarest dish in all this land, 
Which thus bedeck'd with a gay garland 
Let us servire cantico. 
Caput apri defero, etc. 

Our steward hath provided this 
In honor of the King of Bliss, 
"Which on this day to be served is 
In Reginensi Atrio. 

Caput apri defero, etc., etc., etc. 

* The peacock was anciently in great demand for stately 
entertainments. Sometimes it was made into a pie, at one 
end of which the head appeared above the crust in all its 
plumage, with the beak richly gilt ; at the other end the tail 
was displayed. Such pies were served up at the solemn 
banquets of chivalry, when knights-errant pledged themselves 
to undertake any perilous enterprise, whence came the ancient 
oath, used by Justice vShallow, " by cock and pie." 

The peacock was also an important dish for the Christmas 
feast ; and Massinger in his " City Madam," gives some idea 



276 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

It would be tedious, perhaps, to my wiser read- 
ers, wlio may not have that foolish fondness for odd 
and obsolete things to which I am a little given, 
were I to mention the other makeshifts of this 
worthy old humorist, by which he was endeavoring 
to follow up, though at humble distance, the quaint 
customs of antiquity. I was pleased, however, to 
see the respect shown to his whims by his children 
and relatives ; who, indeed, entered readily into the 
full spirit of them, and seemed all well versed in 
their parts, having doubtless been present at many 
a rehearsal. I was amused, too, at the air of pro- 
found gravity with which the butler and other 
servants executed the duties assigned them, how- 
ever eccentric. They had an old-fashioned look, 
having, for the most part, been brought up in the 
household and grown into keeping with the anti- 
quated mansion and the humors of its lord, and 
most probably looked upon all his whimsical 
regulations as the established laws of honorable 
housekeeping. 

When the cloth was removed the butler brought 
in a huge silver vessel of rare and curious work- 
manship, which he placed before the squire. Its 
appearance was hailed with acclamation, being the 
Wassail Bowl, so renowned in Christmas festivity. 
The contents had been prepared by the squire 

of the extravagance with which this, as well as other dishes, 
was prepared for the gorgeous revels of the olden times • 

Men may talk of Country Christmasses, 

Their thirty pound butter'd eggs, their pies of carps' tongues \ 

Their pheasants drenchM with ambergris, the ca7'cases of 

three fat wethers bruised for gravy to make sauce for a single 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 277 

himself; for it was a beverage in the skilful mixture 
of which he particular!}- piided himself, alleging 
:hat it was too abstruse and complex for the com- 
prehensio!! of an ordinary servant. It was a 
potation, indeed, that might well make the heart of 
a toper leap within him, being composed of the 
richest and raciest wines, highly spiced and sweet- 
ened, with roasted apples bobbing about the sur- 
face.* 

The old gentleman's whole countenance beamed 
with a serene look of indwelling delight as he 
stirred this mighty bowl. Having raised it to his 
lips, with a hearty wish of a merry Christmas to. 
all present, he sent it brimming round the board, 
for every one to follow his example, according to- 
the primitive style, pronouncing it "the ancient 
fountain of good feeling, where all hearts met 
together." t 

There was much laughing and rallying as the 

*The Wassail l)0\vl was sometimes composed of ale in- 
stead of wine, with nutmeg, sugar, toast, ginger, and roasted 
crabs ; in this way the nut-brown beverage is still prepared 
in some old families and round the hearths of substantial 
farmers at Christmas. It is also called Lamb's Wool, and is 
celebrated by Herrick in his " Twelfth Night " : 

Next crowne the bowle full 

With gentle Lamb's Wool; 
Add sugar, nutmeg, and ginger, 

With store of ale too, 

And thus ye must doe 
To make the Wassaile a swinger. 

t " The custom of drinking out of the same cup gave place 
to each having his cup. When the steward came to the 
doore with the Wassel, he was to cry three times, Wassely 
Wassel, Wassel, and then the chappell (chaplain) w^as to an- 
swer with a song." — Archceologia. 



278 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

honest emblem of Christmas joviality circulated 
and was kissed rather coyly by the ladies. When 
it reached Master Simon, he raised it in both hands, 
and with the air of a boon companion struck up an 
old Wassail Chanson : 

The brown bowle, 

The merry brown bowle, 

As it goes round-about-a, 

Fill 

Still, 
Let the world say what it will, 
And drink your fill all out-a. 

The deep canne. 

The merry deep canne. 

As thou dost freely quaff-a, 

Sing 

Fling, 
Be as merry as a king, 
And sound a lusty laugh-a.* 

Much of ihe conversation during dinner turned 
upon family topics, to which I was a stranger 
There was, however, a great deal of rallying of 
Master Simon about some gay widow with whcm 
he was accused of having a flirtation. This attack 
was commenced by the ladies, but it was continued 
throughout the dinner by the fat-headed old gentle- 
man next the parson with the persevering assiduity 
of a slow hound, being one of those long-winded 
jokers who, though rather dull at starting game, 
are unrivalled for their talents in hunting it down. 
At every pause in the general conversation he re- 
newed his bantering in pretty much the same terms, 
winking hard at me with both eyes whenever he 
^ave iNIaster Simon what he considered a home- 

* From Poor RobitCs Almanack. 



THE C//Is:/STMAS DINNER. 279 

thrust. The latter, indeed, seemed fond of being 
teased on the subject, as old bachelors are apt to 
be, and he took occasion to inform me, in an under- 
tone, that the lady in question was a prodigiously 
fine woman and drove her own curricle. 

The dinner-time passed away in this flow of in- 
nocent hilarity, and, though the old hall may have 
resounded in its time with many a scene of broader 
rout and revel, yet I doubt whether it ever wit- 
nessed more honest and genuine enjoyment. How 
easy it is for one benevolent being to diffuse pleas- 
ure around him ! and how truly is a kind heart a 
fountain of gladness^ makingeverythingin its vicin- 
ity to freshen into smiles ! The joyous disposition 
of the worthy squire was perfectly contagious ; he 
'^^as happy himself, and disposed to make all the 
jvorld happy, and the little eccentricities of his 
^lumor did but season, in a manner, the sweetness 
of his philanthropy. 

When the ladies had retired, the conversation, as 
usual, became still more animated ; many good 
things were broached which had been thought of 
during dinner, but which would not exactly do for 
a lady's ear ; and, though I cannot positively affirm 
that there was much wit uttered, yet I have cer- 
tainly heard many contests of rare wit produce 
much less laughter. Wit, after all, is a mighty tart, 
pungent ingredient, and much too acid for some 
stomachs ; but honest good-humor is the oil and 
wine of a merry meeting, and there is no jovial 
companionship equal to that where the jokes are 
rather small and the laughter abundant. 

The squire told several long stories of early col- 
lege pranks and adventures, in some of which the 



28o rilE SKETC/I-IWOK. 

parson had been a sharer, though in looking at the 
latter it required some effort of imagination to 
fissure such a little dark anatomy of a man into the 
perpetrator of a madcap gambol. Indeed, the two 
college chums presented pictures of what men may 
be made by their different lots in life. The squire 
had left the university to live lustily on his paternal 
domains in the vigorous enjoyment of prosperity 
and sunshine, and had flourished on to a hearty 
and florid old age ; whilst the poor parson, on the 
contrary, had dried and wilhcrcd away among dusty 
tomes in the silence and shadows of his study. 
Still, there seemed to be a spark of almost extin- 
guished fire feebly glimmering in the bottom of his 
soul ; and as the squire hinted at a sly story of the 
parson and a pretty milkmaid whom they once met 
on the banks of the Isis, the old gentleman made 
an " alphabet of faces," which, as far as I could 
decipher his physiognomy, I verily believe was in- 
dicative of laughter; indeed, I have rarely met with 
an old gentleman that took absolute offence at the 
imputed gallantries of his youth. 

I found the tide of wine and wassail fast gaining 
on the dry land of sober judgment. The company 
grew merrier and louder as their jokes grew duller. 
Master Simon was in as chirping a humor as a 
grasshopper filled with dew, his old songs grew of 
a v/armer complexion, and he began to talk maud- 
lin about the widow. He even gave a long song 
about the wooing of a widow which he informed 
me he had gathered from an excellent black-letter 
work entitled Cupicrs Solicitor for Love, containing 
store of good advice for bachelors, and which he 
promised to lend me ; the first verse was to this 
effect : 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 281 

He that will woo a widow must not dally, 
He must make hay while the sun doth shine 

He must not sta#d with her, shall I, shall I, 
But boldly say, Widow, thou must be mine. 

This song inspired the fat-headed old gentleman, 
who made several attempts to tell a rather broad 
story out of Joe Miller that was pat to the purpose ; 
but he always stuck in the middle, everybody rec- 
ollecting the latter part excepting himself. The 
parson, too, began to show the effects of good cheer, 
having gradually settled down into a cloze and his 
wig sitting most suspiciously on one side. Just at 
this juncture we were summoned to the drawing- 
room, and 1 suspect, at the private instigation of 
mine host, whose joviality seemed always tempered 
with a proper love of decorum. 

After the dinner-table was removed the hall \yas 
given up to the younger members of the family, 
who, prompted to all kind of noisy mirth by the 
Oxonian and Master Simon, made its old walls ring 
with their merriment as they played at romping 
games. I delight in witnessing the gambols of 
children, and particularly at this happy holiday sea- 
son, and could not help stealing out of the drawing- 
room on hearing one of their peals of laughter. 
I found them at the game of blindman's-buff. 
blaster Simon, who was the leader of their revels, 
and seemed on all occasions to fulfill the office of 
that ancient potentate, the Lord of Misrule,'* was 
blinded in the midst of the hall. The little beings 

* At Christmasse there was in the Kinges house, whereso- 
ever hee was lodt^ed, a lorde of misrule or mayster of merie 
disportes, and the like had ye in the house of every roble- 
man of honor, or good worshippe, were he spiritual! 01 tem- 
porall. — Stow. 



282 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

were as busy about him as the mock fairies about; 
Falstaff, pinching him, plucking at the skirts of his 
coat, and tickhng him with straws. One fine blue- 
eyed girl of about thirteen, with her flaxen hair all in 
beautiful confusion, her frolic face in a glow, her 
frock half torn off her shoulders, a complete pict- 
ure of a romp, was the chief tormentor ; and, from 
the slyness with which Master Simon avoided the 
smaller game and hemmed this wild little nymph 
in corners, and obliged her to jump shrieking over 
chairs, I suspected the rogue of being not a whit 
more blinded than was convenient. 

When I returned to the drawing-room I found 
the company seated round the fire listening to the 
parson, who was deepl}^ ensconced in a high-backed 
oaken chair, the work of some cunning artificer of 
yore, which had been brought from the library for 
his particular accommodation. From this venerable 
piece of furniture, with which his shadowy figuro 
and dark weazen face so admirably accorded, ho. 
was dealing out strange accounts of the popula;i* 
superstitions and legends of the surrounding 
country, with which he had become acquainted in 
the course of his antiquarian researches. I am 
half inclined to think that the old gentleman war\ 
himself somewhat tinctured with superstition, as 
men are very apt to be who live a recluse and 
studious life in a sequestered part of the country 
and pore over black-letter tracts, so often filled 
with the marvelous and supernatural. He gave us 
several anecdotes of the fancies of the neighboring 
peasantry concerning the effigy of the crusader 
which lay on the tomb by the church altar. As it 
was the only monument of the kind in that part of 



THE CHRISTMAS DIXNEK. 283 

tlie country, it had always been regarded with 
foehngs of superstition by the good wives of the 
^ illage. It was said to get up from the tomb and 
walk the rounds of the churchyard in stormy nights, 
particularly when it thundered : and one old 
woman, whose cottage bordered on the churchyard, 
had seen it through the windows of the church, 
when the moon shone, slowly pacing up and down 
the aisles. It was the belief that some wrong had 
been left unredressed by the deceased, or some 
treasure hidden, which kept the spirit in a state of 
trouble and restlessness. Some talked of gold and 
jewels buried in the tomb, over which the spectre 
kept watch ; and there was a story current of a 
sexton in old times who endeavored to break his 
w.iy to the coffin at night, but just as he reached it 
received a violent blow from the marble hand of 
1 b.e effigy, which stretched him senseless on the 
pavement. These tales were often laughed at by 
some of the sturdier among the rustics, yet when 
night came on there were many of the stoutest 
unbelievers that were shy of venturing alone in the 
footpath that led across the churchyard. 

From these and other anecdotes that followed 
the crusader appeared to be the favorite hero of 
ghost-stories throughout the vicinity. His picture, 
which hung up in the hall, was thought by the 
servants to have something supernatural about it ; 
for they remarked that in whatever part of the hall 
)'0u went the eyes of the warrior were still fixed on 
3'ou. The old porter's wife, too, at the lodge, who 
Jiad been born and brought up in the family, and 
was a great gossip among the maid-servants, 
affirmed that in her young days she had often 



sS4. THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

heard say that on Midsummer Eve, when it was 
well known all kinds of ghosts, goblins, and fairies 
become visible and walk abroad, the crusader used 
to mount his horse, come down from his picture, 
ride about the house, down the avenue, and so to 
the church to visit the tomb ; on which occasion 
the church-door most civilly swung open of itself ; 
not that he needed it, for he rode through closed 
gates, and even stone walls, and had been seen by 
one of the dairymaids to pass between two bars of 
the great park gate, making himself as thin as a 
sheet of paper. 

All these superstitions I found had been very 
much countenanced by the squire, who, though not 
superstitious himself, was very fond of seeing others 
so. He listened to every goblin tale of the neigh- 
boring gossips with infinite gravity, and held the 
porter's wife in high favor on account of her talent 
for the marvellous. He was himself a great reader 
of old legends and romances, and often lamented 
that he could not believe in them ; for a supersti- 
tious person, he thought, must live in a kind of 
fairy-land. 

Whilst we were all attention to the parson's 
stories, our ears were suddenly assailed by a burst 
of heterogeneous sounds from the hall, in which 
were mingled something like the clang of rude 
minstrelsy with the uproar of many small voices 
and girlish laughter. The door suddenly fiew open, 
and a train came trooping into the room that might 
almost have been mistaken for the breaking up of 
the court of Faery. That indefatigable spirit, 
Master Simon, in the fnithful discharge of his 
duties as lord of misrule, had conceived the id-^;? 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 285 

of a Christmas mummery or masking ; and having 
called in to his assistance the Oxonian and the 
young officer, who were equally ripe for anything 
that should occasion romping and merriment, they 
had carried it into instant effect. The old house- 
keeper had been consulted ; the antique clothes- 
presses and wardrobes rummaged and made to 
yield up the relics of linery that had not seen the 
light for several generations; the younger part of 
the company had been privately convened from the 
parlor and hall, and tiie whole had been bedizened 
out into a burlesque imitation of an antique mask.* 

Master Simon led the van, as " Ancient Christ- 
mas,"' quaintly apparelled in a ruff, a short cloak, 
which had very much the aspect of one of the old 
housekeeper's petticoats, and a hat that might 
have served for a village steeple, and must indu- 
bitably have figured in the days of the Covenanters. 
From under this his nose curved boldly forth, 
flushed with a frost-bitten bloom that seemed the 
very trophy of a December blast. He was accom- 
panied by the blue-eyed romp, dished up, as " Dame 
Mince Pie," in the venerable magnificence of a 
faded brocade, long stomacher, peaked hat, and 
high-heeled shoes. The young officer appeared as 
Robin Hood, in a sporting dress of Kendal green 
and a foraging cap with a gold tassel. 

The costume, to be sure, did not bear testimony 

* Maskings oj* mummeries were favorite sports at Christ- 
mas in old times, and the wardrobes at halls and manor- 
houses were often laid under contribution to furnish dresses 
and fantastic disguisings. I strongly suspect Master Simon 
to have taken the idea of his from Ben Jonson's " Masque 
of Christmas." 



286 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

to deep research, and there was an evident eye to 
the picturesque, natural to a young gallant in the 
presence of his mistress. The fair Julia hung on 
his arm in a pretty rustic dress as " Maid Marian,'* 
The rest of the train had been metamorphosed in 
various ways ; the girls trussed up in the finery of 
the ancient belles of the Bracebridge line, and thi2 
striplings bewhiskered with burnt cork, and gravely- 
clad in broad skirts, hanging sleeves, and full-bot- 
tomed wigs, to represent the character of Roast 
Beef, Plum Pudding, and other worthies celebrated 
in ancient maskino-s. The whole was under the 
control of the Oxonian in the appropriate character 
of Misrule ; and I observed that he exercised rather 
a mischievous sway with his wand over the smaller 
personages of the pageant. 

The irruption of this motle}^ crew with beat of 
drum, according to ancient custom, was the consum- 
mation of uproar and merriment. Master Simon 
covered himself with glory by the stateliness with 
which, as Ancient Christmas, he walked a minuet 
with the peerless though giggling Dame Mince 
Pie. It was followed by a dance of all the charac- 
ters, which from its medlev of costumes seemed aii 
though the old family portraits had skipped down 
from their frames to join in the sport. Different 
centuries were figuring at cross hands and right 
and left ; the Dark Ages were cutting pirouettes 
and rigadoons ; and the days of Queen Bess jig- 
ging merrily down the middle through a line of 
succeedins: jrenerations. 

The worthy squire contemplated these fantastic 
sports and this resurrection of his old wardrobe 
with the simple relish of childish delight. He stood 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 287 

chucklnigand rubbing his hands, and scarcely hear- 
ing a word the parson said, notwithstanding that 
tlie latter was discoursing most autlientically on the 
ancient and stately dance of the Pavon, or peacock, 
from which he conceived tlie minuet to be derived."^ 
For my part, I was in a continual excitement from 
the varied scenes of whim and innocent gaycty 
passing before me. It was inspiring to see wild- 
eyed frolic and warm-hearted hospitality breaking 
out from among the chills and glooms of winter, 
and old age throwing off his apathy and catching 
once more the freshness of youthful enjoyment. I 
felt also an interest in the scene from the consider- 
ation that these fleeting customs were posting fast 
into oblivion, and that this was perhaps the only 
family in England in which the whole of them was 
still punctiliously observed. There was a quaint- 
ness, too, mingled with all this revelry that gave it 
a peculiar zest : it was suited to the time and place; 
and as the old manor-house almost reeled with 
mirth and wassail, it seemed echoing back the 
joviality of long departed years. f 



* Sir John Hawkins, speaking of the dance called the 
Pavon, from pavo, a peacock, says, " It is a grave and majestic 
ciance ; the method of dancing it anciently was by gentlemen 
^iressed with caps and swords, by those of the long robe m 
their gowns, by the peers in their mantles, and by the ladies 
ia gowns with long trains, the motion whereof, in dancing, 
resembled that of a peacock." — History of Ahisic. 

t At the time of the first publication of this paper the 
picture of an old-fashioned Christmas in the country was 
jironounced by some as out of date. The author had after- 
wards an opportunity of witnessing almost all the customs 
sibove described, existing in unexpected vigor in the skirts of 
Derbyshire and Yorkshire, where he passed *he Christmas 



288 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

But enough of Christmas and its gambols ; it is 
time for me to pause in this garrulity. Methinks I 
hear the questions asked by my graver readers, 
" To what purpose is all this ? how is the world to 
be mar'e wiser by this talk?" Alas ! is there not 
wisdom enough extant for the instruction of the 
world ? And if rtot, are there not thousands of 
abl'jr pens laboring for its improvement ? It is so 
much pleasanter to please than to instruct — to play 
the companion rather than the preceptor. 

What, after all, is the mite of wisdom that I 
could tlirow i^ito the mass of knowledge? or how 
am I sure that my sagest deductions may be safe 
guides for the opinions of others ? But in writing 
to amuse, if I fail the only evil is in my own dis- 
appointment. If, however, I can by any lucky 
chance, in these days of evil, rub out one wrinkle 
from the brow of care or beguile the heavy heart 
of one moment of sorrow ; if I can now and then 
penetrate through the gathering film of misanthropy, 
prompt a benevolent view of human nature, and 
make my reader more in good-humor with his 
fellow-beings and himself — surely, surely, I shall 
not then have written entirely in vain. 

holidays. The reader will find some notice of them in the 
author's account of his sojourn at Newstead Abbey. 



Lo:.Lo:: A::yjQ_-JLc:. 289 



LONDON ANTIQUES. 



■I do walk 



Methinks like Guido Vaux, with my dark lanthorn, 
Stealing to set the town o' fire; i' th' country 
I should be taken for William o' the Wisp, 
Or Robin Goodfellow. 

Fletcher. 

I AM somewhat of an antiquity-hunter, and am 
fond of exploring London in quest of the relics of 
old times. Tiiese are principall}^ to be found in the 
depths of the city, swallowed up and almost lost in 
a wilderness of brick and mortar, but deriving 
poetical and romantic interest from the common- 
place, prosaic world around them. I was struck 
with an instance of the kind in the course of a re- 
cent summer ramble into the city ; for the city is 
only to be explored to adv^antage in summer-time, 
when free from the smoke and fog and rain and 
mud of winter. 1 had been buffeting for some 
time against the current of population setting 
through Fleet Street. The warm weather had un- 
strung my nerves and macle me sensitive to every 
jar and jostle and discordant sound. The flesh 
was weary, the spirit faint, and I was getting out of 
humor with the bustling busy throng through which I 
had to struggle, when in a fit of desperation T tore 
my way through the crowd, plunged into a by-lane, 
and, after passing through several obscure nooks 
and angles, emerged into a quaint and quiet court 
with a grassplot in the centre overhung by elms, 

19 



290 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

and kept perpetually fresh and green by a fountain 
with its sparkling jet of water. A student with 
book in hand was seated on a stone bench, partly 
reading, partly meditating on the movements of two 
or three trim nursery-maids with their infant charges. 

I was like an Arab who had suddenly come upon 
an oasis amid the panting sterility of the desert. 
By degrees the quiet and coolness of the place 
soothed my nerves and refreshed my spirit. I 
pursued my walk, and came, hard by, to a very 
ancient chapel watii a low-browed Saxon portal of 
massive and rich architecture. The interior was 
circular and lofty and lighted from above. Around 
were monumental tombs of ancient date on which 
were extended the marble effigies of warriors in 
armor. Some had the hands devoutly crossed upon 
the breast ; others grasped the pommel of the 
sword, menacing hostility even in the tomb, while 
the crossed legs of several indicated soldiers of 
the Faith who had been on crusades to the Holy 
Land. 

I was, in fact, in the chapel of the Knights 
Templars, strangely situated in the very centre of 
sordid traffic •, and I do not know a more impres- 
sive lesson for the man of the world than thus sud- 
denly to turn aside from the highway of busy money- 
seeking life, and sit down among these shadowy 
sepulchres, where all is twilight, dust, and forget- 
fulness. 

In a subsequent tour of observation I encountered 
another of these relics of a " foregone world " locked 
up in the heart of the city. I had been wandering 
for some time through dull monotonous streets, 
destitute of anything to strike the eye or excite the 



LONDON ANTIQUES. 291 

imagination, when I beheld before me a Gothic 
gateway of mouldering antiquity. It opened into 
a spacious quadrangle forming the court3'ard of a 
stately Gothic pile, the portal of which stood invit- 
ingly open. 

It was apparently a public edifice, and, as I was 
antiquity-hunting, 1 ventured in, though with dubi- 
ous steps. Meeting no one either to oppose or 
rebuke my intrusion, I continued on until I found 
myself in a great hall with a lofty arched roof and 
oaken gallery, all of Gothic architecture. At one 
end of the hall was an enormous fireplace, with 
wooden settles on each side ; at the other end was 
a raised platform, or dais, the seat of state, above 
which was the portrait of a man in antique garb 
with a long robe, a ruff, and a venerable gray 
beard. 

The whole establishment had an air of monastic 
quiet and seclusion, and what gave it a mysterious 
charm was, that I had not met with a human being 
since I had passed the threshold. 

Encouraged by this loneliness, I seated myself in 
a recess of a large bow window, which admitted a 
broad flood of yellow sunshine, checkered here and 
there by tints from panes of colored glass, while an 
open casement let in the soft summer air. Here, 
leaning my head on my hand and my arm on an old 
oaken table, I indulged in a sort of reverie about 
what might have been the ancient uses of this edifice. 
It had evidently been of monastic origin ; perhaps 
one of those collegiate establishments built of yore 
for the promotion of learning, where the patient 
monk, in the ample solitude of the cloister, added 
page to page and volume to volume, emulating in 



292 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 



the productions of his brain the magnitude of the 
pite he inhabited. 

As I was seated in this musing mood a small 
panelled door in an arch at the upper end of the 
hall was opened, and a number of gray-headed old 
men, clad ni long black cloaks, came forth one by 
one, proceeding in that manner through the hall, 
without uttering a word, each turning a pale face on 
me as he passed, and disappearing through a door 
at the lower end. 

I was singularly struck with their appearance ; 
tlieir black cloaks and antiquated air comported 
with the style of this most venerable and mysterious 
pile. It was as if the ghosts of the departed years, 
about which I had been musing, were passing in re- 
view before me. Pleasing myself with such fancies, 
I set out, in the spirit of romance, to explore what I 
pictured to myself a realm of shadows existing in 
the very centre of substantial realities. 

My ramble led me through a labyrinth of interior 
courts and corridors and dilapidated cloisters, for 
the main edifice had many additions and dependen- 
cies, built at various times and in various styles. In 
one open space a number of boys, who evidently 
belonged to the establishment, were at their sports, 
but everywhere I observed those mysterious old gray 
men in black mantles, sometimes sauntering alone, 
sometimes conversing in groups ; they appeared to 
be the pervading genii of the place. I now called 
to mind what I had read of certain colleges in old 
times, where judicial astrology, geomancy, necro- 
mancy, and other forbidden and magical sciences 
were taught. Was this an establishment of the kind, 
and were these black-cloaked old men really prc^fes- 
sors of the black art ? 



LONDON ANTIQUES. 293 

These surmises were passing through my mind as 
my eye glanced into a chamber hung round with all 
kinds of strange and uncouth objects — implemetits 
of savage warfare, strange idols and stuffed alliga- 
tors ; bottled serpents and monsters decorated the 
mantelpiece ; while on the high tester of an old- 
fashioned bedstead grinned a human skull, flanked 
on each side by a dried cat. 

I approached to regard more narrowly this mystic 
chamber, which seemed a fitting laboratory for a 
necromancer, when I was startled at beholding a 
human countenance staring at me from a dusky cor- 
ner. It was that of a small, shrivelled old man with 
thin cheeks, bright eyes, and gray, wiry, projecting 
eyebrows. I at first doubted whether it were not a 
muu.my curiously preserved, but it moved, and I 
saw that it was alive. It was another of these black- 
cloaked old men, and, as I regarded his quaint phys- 
iognomy, his obsolete garb, and the hideous and 
sinister objects by which he was surrounded, I be- 
gan to persuade myself that I had come upon the 
arch-mago who ruled over this magical fraternity. 

Seeing me pausing before the door, he rose and 
invited me to enter. I obeyed with singular hardi- 
hood, for how did I know whether a wave of his 
wand might not metamorphose me into some 
strange monster or conjure me into one of the 
bottles on his mantelpiece ? He proved, however, 
to be anything but a conjurer, and his simple gar- 
rulity soon dispelled all the magic and mystery 
with which I had enveloped this antiquated pile 
and its no less antiquated inhabitants. 

It appeared that I had made my way into the 
centre of an ancient asylum for superannuated 



294 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

tradesmen and decayed householders, with which 
was connected a school for a limited number of 
boys. It was founded upwards of two centuries 
since on an old monastic establishment, and re- 
tained somewhat of the conventual air and char- 
acter. The shadowy line of old men in black 
mantles who had passed before me in the hall, and 
whom I had elevator' into magi, turned out to be 
the pensioners returning from morning service in 
the chapel. 

John Hallum, the little collector of curiosities 
whom I had made the arch magician, had been for 
six years a resident of the place, and had decorated 
this final nestling-place of his old age with relics 
and rarities picked up in the course of his life. 
According to his own account, he had been some- 
what of a traveller, having been once in France, 
and very near making a visit to Holland. He 
regretted not having visited the latter country, " as 
then he might have said he had been there." He 
was evidently a traveller of the simple kind. 

He was aristocratical too in his notions, keeping 
aloof, as I found, from the ordinary run of pen- 
sioners. His chief associates were a blind man 
who spoke Latin and Greek, of both which lan- 
guages Hallum was profoundly ignorant, and a 
broken-down gentleman who had run through a 
fortune of forty thousand pounds left him by his 
father, and ten thousand pounds, the marriage 
portion of his wife. Little Hallum seemed to 
consider it an indubitable sign of gentle blood as 
well as of lofty spirit to be able to squander such 
enormous sums. 

P. S. — The picturesque remnant of old times 



LONDON ANTIQUES. 295 

into which I have thus beguiled the reader is what 
is called the Charter House, originally the Char- 
treuse. It was founded in 161 1, on the remains of 
an ancient convent, by Sir Thomas Sutton, being 
one of those noble charities set on foot by indi- 
vidual munificence, and kept up with the quaintness 
and sanctity of ancient times amidst the modern 
changes and innovations of London. Here eighty 
broken-down men, who have seen better days, are 
provided in their old age with food, clothing, fuel, 
and a yearly allowance for private expenses. They 
dine together, as did the monks of old, in the hall 
which had been the refectory of the original 
convent. Attached to the establishment is a school 
for forty-four boys. 

Stow, whose work I have consulted on the sub- 
ject, speaking of the obligations of the gray-headed, 
pensioners, says, "They are not to intermeddle 
with any business touching the affairs of the hos- 
pital, but to attend only to the service of God, and 
take thankfully what is provided for them, without 
muttering, murmuring, or grudging. None to wear 
weapon, long hair, colored boots, spurs, or colored 
shoes, feathers in their hats, or any ruffian-like or 
unseemly apparel, but such as becomes hospital- 
men to wear." " And in truth," adds Stow, " happy 
are they that are so taken from the cares and 
sorrows of the world, and fixed in so good a place 
as these old men are ; having nothing to care for 
but the good of their souls, to serve God, and to 
live in brotherly love." 



For the amusement of such as have been inter-- 



296 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

ested by the preceding sketch, taken down from my 
own observation, and who may wish to know a little 
more about the mysteries of London, I subjoin a 
modicum of local history put into my hands by an 
odd-looking old gentleman, in a small brown wig and 
a snuff-colored coat, with whom I became acquaint- 
ed shortly after my visit to the Charter House. I 
confess I was a little dubious at first whether it 
was not one of those apocryphal tales often passed 
off upon inquiring travellers like myself, and which 
have brought our general character for veracity 
into such unmerited reproach. On making proper 
inquiries, however, I have received the most sati- 
sfactory assurances of the author's probity, and 
indeed have been told that he is actually engaged 
in a full and particular account of the very inter- 
esting region in which he resides, of which the 
following may be considered merely as a foretastd^ 



LITTLE BRITAIN. 



297 



LITTLE BRITAIN. 

What I write is most true I have a whole booke of 

cases lying by nie, which if I should sette foorth, some grave 
auntients (within the hearing of Bow Bell) would be out of 
charity with me. 

N'ash. 

In the centre of the great City of London lies 
a small neighborhood, consisting of a cluster of 
narrow streets and courts, of very venerable 
and debilitated houses, which goes by the name 
of Little Britain. Christ Church School 
and St. Bartholomew's Hospital bound it on the 
west ; Smithfield and Long Lane on the north ; 
Aldersgate Street, like an arm of the sea, divides it 
from the eastern part of the city ; whilst the yawn- 
ing gulf of Bull-and-Mouth Street separates it from 
Butcher Lane and the regions of Newgate. Over 
this little territory, thus bounded and designated, 
the great dome of St. Paul's, swelling above the 
intervening houses of Paternoster Row, Amen 
Corner, and Ave-Maria Lane, looks down with an 
air of motherly protection. 

This quarter derives its appellation from having 
been, in ancient times, the residence of the Dukes 
of Brittany. As London increased, however, rank 
and fashion rolled off to the west, and trade, 
creeping on at their heels, took possession of their 
deserted abodes. For some time Little Britain 
became the great mart of learning, and was 



298 77//; SKETCH-BOOK. 

peopled by the busy and prolific race of book- 
sellers : these also gradually deserted it, and, 
emigrating beyond the great strait of Newgate 
Street, settled down in Paternoster Row and St. 
Paul's Churchyard, where they continue to increase 
and multiply even at the present day. 

But, though thus fallen into decline, Little 
Britain still bears traces of its former splendor. 
There are several houses ready to tumble down, the 
fronts of which are magnificently enriched with old 
oaken carvings of hideous faces, unknown birds, 
beasts, and fishes, and fruits and flowers which it 
would perplex a naturalist to classify. There are 
also, in Aldersgate Street, certain remains of what 
were once spacious and lordly family mansions, 
but which have in latter days been subdivided into 
several tenements. Here may often be found the 
family of a petty tradesman, with its trumpery 
furniture, burrowing among the relics of antiquated 
finery in great rambling time-stained apartments 
with fretted ceilings, gilded cornices, and enormous 
marble fireplaces. The lanes and courts also 
contain many smaller houses, not on so grand a 
scale, but, like your small' ancient gentry, sturdily 
maintaining their claims to equal antiquity. These 
have their gable ends to the street, great bow 
windows with diamond panes set in lead, grotesque 
carvings, and low arched doorways.* 

In this most venerable and sheltered little nest 
have I passed several quiet years of existence, com- 

* It is evident that the author of this interesting communi- 
cation has included, in his general title of Little Britain, 
many of those little lanes and courts that belong immediately 
to Cloth Fair. 



LITTLE BRITAIN. 299 

fortably lodged in the second floor of one of the 
smallest but oldest edifices. My sitting-room is an 
old wainscoted chamber, with small panels and set 
off with a miscellaneous array of furniture. I have 
a particular respect for three or four high-backed, 
claw-footed chairs, covered with tarnished brocade, 
which bear the marks of having seen better days, 
and have doubtless figured in some of the old 
palaces of Little Britain. They seem to me to keep 
together and to look down with sovereign contempt 
upon their leathern-bottomed neighbors, as I have 
seen decaved gentry carry a high head among the 
plebeian society with which they were reduced to 
associate. The whole front of my sitting-room^ is 
taken up with a bow window, on the panes of which 
are recorded the names of previous occupants for 
many generations, mingled with scraps of very in- 
different gentleman-like poetry, written in characters 
which I can scarcely decipher, and which extol the 
charms of many a beauty of Little Britain who has 
long, long since bloomed, faded, and passed away. 
As I am an idle personage, with no apparent occu- 
pation, and pay my bill regularly every week, I am 
looked upon as the only independent gentleman of 
the neighborhood, and, being curious to learn the 
internal state of a community so apparently shut 
up within itself, I have managed to work my way 
into all the concerns and secrets of the place. 

Little Britain may truly be called the heart's core 
of the city, the stronghold of true John Bullism. 
It is a fragment of London as it was in its better 
days, \\\\\\ its antiquated folks and fashions. Here 
floiirish in great preservation many of the holiday 
gam&s and customs of yore. The inhabitarxtg mos^ 



300 TIJE SKETCH-BOOK. 

religiously eat pancakes on Shrove Tuesday, hot 
cross-buns on Good Friday, and roast goose at 
Michaelmas; they send love-letters on Valentine's 
Day, burn the Pope on the Fifth of November, and 
kiss all the girls under the mistletoe at Christmas. 
Roast beef and plum-pudding are also held in su 
perstitious veneration, and port and sherry maintain 
their grounds as the only true English wines, all 
others being considered vile outlandish beverages. 

Little Britain has its lonsf cataloo:ue of citv won- 
ders, which its inhabitants consider the wonders of 
the world, such as the great bell of St. Paul's, which 
sours all the beer when it tolls ; the figures that 
strike the hours at St. Dunstan's clock ; the Monu- 
ment ; the lions in the Tower; and the wooden 
giants in Guildhall. The}'' still believe in dreams 
and fortune-telling, and an old woman that lives in 
Bull-and-Mouth Street makes a tolerable subsistence 
by detecting stolen goods and promising the girls 
good husbands. They are apt to be- rendered un- 
comfortable by comets and eclipses, and if a dog 
howls dolefully at night it is looked upon as a sure 
sign of death in the place. There are even many 
ghost-stories current, particularly concerning the 
old mansion-houses, in several of which it is said 
strange sights are sometimes seen. Lords and 
ladies, the former in full-bottomed wigs, hanging 
sleeves, and swords, the latter in lappets, stays, 
hoops, and brocade, have been seen walking up and 
down the great waste chambers on moonlight nights, 
and are sujDposed to be the shades of the ancient 
proprietors in their court-dresses. 

Little Britain has likewise its sages and great 
men. One of the most important of the former is 



LITTLE BRITAIN. 301 

a till, dry old gentleman of the name of Skryme, 
who keeps a small apothecary's shop. He has a 
cadaverous countenance, full of cavities and pro- 
jections, with a brown circle round each eye, like a 
pair of horn spectacles. He is much thought of by 
the old women, who consider him as a kind of con- 
jurer because he has two or three stuffed alligators 
handngup in his shop and several snakes in bottles. 
He is a great reader of almanacs and newspapers, 
and is much given to pore over alarming accounts 
of plots, conspiracies, fires, earthquakes, and vol- 
canic eruptions ; which last phenomena he considers 
as signs of the times. He has always some dismal 
tale of the kind to' deal out to his customers with 
their doses, and thus at the same time puts both 
soul and body into an uproar. He is a great 
believer in omens and predictions ; and has the 
prophecies of Robert Nixon and Mother Shipton by 
heart. No man can make so much out of an eclipse, 
or even an unusually dark day ; and he shook the 
tail of the last comet over the heads of his cus- 
tomers and disciples until they were nearly fright- 
ened out of their wits. He has lately got hold of 
a popular legend or prophecy, on which he has been 
unusually eloquent. There has been a saying cur- 
rent among the ancient sibyls, who treasure up 
these things, that when the grasshopper on the top 
of the Exchange shook hands with the dragon on 
the top of Bow Church steeple, fearful events would 
take place. This strange conjunction, it seems, has 
as strangely come to pass. The same architect 
has beenengaged lately on the repairs of the cupola 
of the Exchange and the steeple of Bow Church ; 
and, fearful to relate, the dragon and the grass- 



302 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 



hopper actually lie, cheek by jole, in the yard of his 
workshop. 

"Others," as Mr. Skryme is accustomed to say, 
"may go star-gazing, and look for conjunctions in 
the heavens, but here is a conjunction on the earth, 
near at home and under our own eyes, which sur- 
passes all the signs and calculations of astrologers." 
Since these portentous weathercocks have thus laid 
their heads together, wonderful events had already 
occurred. The good old king, notwithstanding that 
he had lived eighty-two years, had all at once given 
up the ghost ; another king had mounted the throne ; 
a royal duke had died suddenly ; another, in France, 
had been murdered ; there had been radical meet- 
ings in all parts of the kingdom ; the bloody scenes 
at Manchester; the great plot in Cato Street ; and, 
above all, the queen had returned to England ! 
All these sinister events are recounted by Mr. 
Skyrme with a mysterious look and a dismal shake 
of the head ; and being taken with his drugs, and 
associated in the minds of his auditors with stuffed- 
sea-monsters, bottled serpents, and his own visage, 
which is a title-page of tribulation, they have spread 
great gloom through the minds of the people of 
Little Britain. They shake their heads whenever 
they go by Bow Church, and observe that they 
never expected any good to come of taking down 
that steeple, which in old times told nothing but 
glad tidings, as the history of Whittington and his 
Cat bears witness. 

The rival oracle of Little Britain is a substantial 
cheesemonger, who lives in a fragment of one of 
the old family mansions, and is as magnificently 
lodged as a round-bellied mite in the midst of one 



LITTLE BRITAIN. 303 

of his own Chesbires. Indeed, he is a man of no 
little standing and importance, and his renown ex- 
tends through Huggin lane and Lad lane, and even 
unto Aldermanbury. His opinion is very much 
taken in affairs of state, having read the Sunday 
papers for the last half century, together with the 
Gent/ema?i's Magazi?ie, Rapin's History of England, 
and the Naval Chronicle. His head is stored with 
invaluable maxims which have borne the test of 
time and use for centuries. It is his firm opinion 
that " it is a moral impossible," so long as England 
is true to herself, that anything can shake her : and 
he has much to say on the subject of the national 
debt, which, somehow or other, he proves to be a 
great national bulwark and blessing. He passed 
the greater part of his life in the purlieus of Little 
Britain until of late years, when, having become 
rich and grown into the dignity of a Sunday cane, 
he begins to take his pleasure and see the world. 
He has therefore made several excursions to Hamp- 
stead, Highgate, and other neighboring towns, 
where he has passed whole afternoons in looking 
back upon the metropolis through a telescope and 
endeavoring to descry the steeple of St. Bartholo- 
mew's. Not a stage-coachman of Bull-and-Mouth 
Street but touches his hat as he passes, and he is 
considered quite a patron at the coach-office of the 
Goose and Gridiron, St. Paul's Churchyard. His 
family have been very urgent for him to make an 
expedition to Margate, but he has great doubts of 
those new gimcracks, the steamboats, and indeed 
thinks himself too advanced in life to undertake 
sea-voyages. 

Little Britain has occasionally its factions and 



304 



7-HE SKE TCri-B O OK. 



divisions, and party spirit ran very high at one time, 
in consequence of two rival " Burial Societies '"* 
beins^ set up in the place. One held its meeting at 
the Swan and Horse-Shoe, and was patronized by 
the cheesemonger ; the other at the Cock and 
Crown, under the auspices of the apothecary : it is 
needless to say that the latter was the most flour- 
ishing. I have passed an evening or two at each, 
and have acquired much valuable information as 
to the best mode of being buried, the comparative 
merits of churchyards, together with divers hints 
on the subject of patent iron coffins. I have heard 
the question discussed in all its bearings as to the 
legality of prohibiting the latter on account of their 
durability. The feuds occasioned by these soci- 
eties have happily died of late ; but they were for a 
long time prevailing themes of controversy, the 
people of Little Britain being extremely solicitous 
of funeral honors and of lying comfortably in their 
graves. 

Besides these two funeral societies there is a 
third of quite a different cast, which tends to throw 
the sunshine of good-humor over the whole neigh- 
borhood. It meets once a week at a little old- 
fashioned house kept by a jolly publican of the 
name of VVagstaff, and bearing for insignia a re- 
splendent half-moon, with a most seductive bunch of 
grapes. The whole edifice is covered with inscrip- 
tions to catch the eye of the thirsty wayfarer ; such 
as " Truman, Hanbury, and Co's Entire," " Wine, 
Pvum, and Brandy Vaults," " Old Tom, Rum, and 
Compounds," etc. This indeed has been a temple 
of Bacchus and Momus from time immemorial. It 
has always been in the family of the VVagstaffs, so 



LITTLE BRITALV. 305 

that its history is tolerably preserved by the pres- 
ent landlord. It was much frequented by the gal- 
lants and cavalieros of the reign of Elizabeth, and 
was looked into now and then by the wits of 
Charles the Second's day. But what Wagstaff 
principally prides himself upon is that Henry the 
Eighth, in one of his nocturnal rambles, broke the 
head of one of his ancestors with his famous walk- 
ing-staff. This, however, is considered as rather a 
dubious and vain-glorious boast of the landlord. 

The club which now holds its weekly sessions 
here goes by the name of "the Roaring Lads of 
Little Britain." They abound in old catches, glees, 
and choice stories that are traditional in the place 
and not to be met with in any other part of the 
metropolis. There is a madcap undertaker who is 
inimitable at a merry song, but the life of the 
club, and indeed the prime wit of Little Britain, is 
bully Wagstaff himself. His ancestors were all 
wags before him, and he has inherited with the inn 
a large stock of songs and jokes, which go w^th it 
from Generation to sieneration as heirlooms. He is 
a dapper little fellow, with' bandy legs and pot 
belly, a red face with a moist merry eye, and a 
little shock of gray hair behind. At the opening 
of every club night he is called in to sing his " Con- 
fession of Faith," which is the famous old drink- 
ins: trowl from " Gammer Gurton's Needle." He 
sings it, to be sure, with many variations, as he re- 
ceived it from his father's lips ; for it has been a 
standing favorite at the Half-Moon and Bunch of 
Grapes ever since it was written ; nay, he affirms 
that his predecessors have often had the honor of 
singing it before the nobility and gentry at Christ- 
20 



THE SKE TCII-B O C K. 



mas mummeries, when Little Britain was in all its 
glory.* 

* As mine host of the Half-Moon's Confession of Faith 
may not be familiar to the majority of readers, and as it is a 
specimen of the current songs of Little Britain, I subjoin it 
in its original orthography. I would observe that the whole 
club always join in the chorus with a fearful thumping on the 
table and clattering of pewter pots. 

I cannot eate but lytle meate, 

My stomacke is not good. 
But sure I thinke that I can drinke 

With him that weares a hood. 
Though I go bare, take ye no care, 

I nothing am a colde, 
I stuff my skyn so full within, 

Of joly good ale and olde. 

Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, 
Both foote and hand go colde, 
But, belly, God send thee good ale ynoughe, 
Whether it be new or olde. 

I have no rost, but a nut brawne toste, 

And a crab laid in the fyre ; 
A little breade shall do me steade. 

Much breade I not desyre. 
No frost nor snow, nor winde, I trowe, 

Can hurte mee, if I wolde, 
I am so wrapt and throwly lapt 

Of joly good ale and olde. 

Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc. 

And Tyb my wife, that, as her lyfe, 

I.oveth well good ale to seeke, 
Full oft drynkes shee, tyll ye may see, 

The teares run downe her cheeke. 
Then doth shee trowle to me the bowle, 

Even as a mault-worme sholde, 
Ard sayth, sweete harte, I took my parte 

Of this jollv good ale and olde. 
Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go Dare, etc 



LITTLE BRITAIN. 307 

It would do one's heart good to hear, on a club 
r:]iight, the shouts of merriment, the snatches of song, 
and now and then the choral bursts of half a dozen 
discordant voices, which issue from this jovial 
mansion. At such times the street is lined with 
listeners, who enjoy a delight equal to that of gazing 
into a confectioner's window or snuffing up the 
steams of a cook-shop. 

There are two annual events which produce great 
stir and sensation in Little Britain : these are St. 
])artholomew's Fair and the Lord Mayor's Day. 
During the time of the P'air, which is held in the 
adjoining regions of Smithfield, there is nothing 
going on but gossiping and gadding about. The 
late quiet streets of Little Britain are overrun with 
an irruption of. strange figures and faces ; every 
tavern is a scene of rout and revel. The fiddle 
and the song are heard from the taproom morning, 
noon, and night ; and at each window may be seen 
some group of boon companions, with half-shut 
eyes, hats on one side, pipe in mouth and tankard 
in hand, fondling and prosing, and singing maudlin 
songs over their liquor. Even the sober decorvun 
of private families, which I must say is rigidly kept 
up at other times among my neighbors, is no proof 
against this saturnalia. There is no such thing as 

Now let them drynke, tyll they nod and winke, 

Even as goode fellowes sholde doe, 
They shall not mysse to have the blisse, 

Good ale doth bring men to ; 
And all poore soules that have scowred bowles, 

Or have them lustily trolde, 
God save the lyves oi them and their wivee, 

Whether they be yonge or olde. 

Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc. 



3o8 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

keeping maid-servants within doors. Their brains 
are absolutely set madding with Punch and the 
Puppet-Show, the Flying Horses, Signior Polito, 
the Fire- Eater, the celebrated Mr. Paap, and the 
Irish Giant. The children too lavish all their holi- 
day money in toys and gilt gingerbread, and fill the 
house with the Lilliputian din of drums, trumpets, 
and penny whistles. 

But the Lord Mayor's Day is the great anniver- 
sary. T!ie Lord Mayor is looked up to by the 
inhabitants of Little Britain as the greatest poten- 
tate upon earth, his gilt coach with six horses as 
the summit of human splendor, and his procession, 
with all the sheriffs and aldermen in his train, as 
the grandest of earthly pageants. How they exult 
in the idea that the king himself dare not enter the 
city without first knocking at the gate of Temple 
Bar and asking permission of the Lord Mayor; for 
if he did, heaven and earth ! there is no knowing 
what might be the consequence. The man in 
armor who rides before the Lord Mayor, and is the 
city champion, has orders to cut down everybody 
that offends acrainst the diirnitv of the citv ; and 
then there is the little man with a velvet porringer 
on his head, who sits at the window of the state 
coach and holds the city sword, as long as a pike- 
staff. Odd's blood ! if he once draws that sword, 
Majesty itself is not safe. 

Under the protection of this mighty potentate, 
therefore, the good people of Little Britain sleep in 
peace. Temple Bar is an effectual barrier against 
all interior foes; and as to foreign invasion, the 
Lord Mayor has but to throw himself into tlie 
Tower, call in the train-bands, and put the stand- 



LITTLE BRITAIN, 



309 



ing army of Beef-eaters under arms, and he may bid 
defiance to the world ! 

Thus wrapped up in its own concerns, its own 
habits, and its own opinions, Little Britain has long 
flourished as a sound heart to this great fungous 
metropolis. I have pleased myself with consider- 
ing it as a chosen spot, where the principles of 
sturdy John BuUism were garnered up, like seed 
corn, to rene\v the national character when it had 
run to waste and degeneracy. I have rejoiced also 
in the general spirit of harmony that prevailed 
throughout it ; for though there might now and 
then be a few clashes of opinion between the 
adherents of the cl>eesemonger and the apothecary, 
and an occasional feud between the burial societies, 
yet these were bat transient clouds and soon 
passed au'ay. The neighbors met with good-will, 
parted with a shake of the hand, and never abused 
each other except behind their backs. 

I could give rare descriptions of snug junketing 
parties at which I have been present, where we 
played at All-Fours, Pope-Joan, Tom-come-tickle- 
me, and other choice old games, and where we 
sometimes had a good old English country dance to 
the tune of Sir Roger de Coverley. Once a year 
also the neighbors would gather together and go 
on a gypsy party to Epping Forest. It would have 
done any man's heart good to see the merriment 
that took place here as we banqueted on the grass 
under the trees. How we made the woods ring 
with bursts of laughter at the songs of little Wag- 
staff and the merry undertaker ! After dinner, 
too, the young folks would play at blindman's-buff 
and hide-and-seek, and it was amusing to see them 



3IO rilE SKETCH-BGOK. 

tangled among the briers, and to hear a fine romp 
ing girl now and then squeak from among the,- 
bushes. The elder folks would gather round tht; 
cheesemonger and the apothecary to hear them talk 
politics, for they generally brought out a news- 
paper in their pockets to pass awa}' time in the 
country. They would now and then, to be sure, 
get a little warm in argument ; but their disputes 
were always adjusted by reference to a worthy old 
umbrella-maker in a double chin, who, never exactly 
comprehending the subject, managed somehow or 
other to decide in favor of both parties. 

All empires, however, says some philosopher or 
historian, are doomed to changes and revolutions. 
Luxury and innovation creep in, factions arise, and 
families now and then spring up whose ambition 
and intrigues throw the whole system into con- 
fusion. Thus in latter days has the tranquillity 
of Little Britain been grievously disturbed and its 
golden simplicity of manners threatened with total 
subversion by the aspiring family of a retired 
butcher. 

The family of the Lambs had long been among 
the most thriving and popular in the neighborhood: 
the Miss Lambs were the belles of Little Britain, 
and everybody was pleased when Old Lamb had 
made money enough to shut up shop and put his 
name on a brass plate on his door. In an evil hour, 
however, one of the Miss Lambs had the honor of 
being a lady in attendance on the Lady Mayoress at 
her grand annual ball, on which occasion she wonii 
three towering ostrich feathers on her head. Th«:! 
family never got over it ; they were immediately 
smittep, with a passion for hijcrh life : sei- ur» a one 



LITTLE BRITALN. 311 

horse carriage, put a bit of gold lace round the 
errand-boy's hat, and have been the talk and detes- 
tation of the whole neighborhood ever since. They 
could no longer be mduced to play at Pope-Joan 
or blindman's-buff; they could endure no dances 
but quadrilles, which nobody had ever heard of m 
Little r)ritain ; and they took to reading novels, talk- 
ing bad French, and playing upon the piano. Their 
brother, too, who had been articled to an attorney, 
set up for a dandy and a critic, characters hitherto 
unknown in these parts, and he confounded the 
worthy folks exceedingly by talking about Kean, 
the Opera, and the " Edinburgh Review." 

What was still worse, the Lambs gave a grand 
ball, to which they neglected to invite any of their 
old neighbors ; but they had a great deal of genteel 
company from Theobald's Road, Red Lion Square, 
and other parts towards the west. There were 
several beaux of their brother's acquaintance from 
Gray's Inn Lane and Hatton Garden, and not less 
than three aldermen's ladies with their daughters. 
■ This was not to be forgotten or forgiven. AH Little 
Britain was in an uproar with the smacking of 
whips, the lashing of miserable horses, and the 
rattling and jingling of hackney-coaches. The 
gossips of the neighborhood might be seen popping 
their night-caps out at every window, watching the 
crazy vehicles rumble by ; and there was a knot of 
virulent old cronies that kept a look-out from a 
house just opposite the retired butcher's and 
scanned and criticised every one that knocked at 

the door. 

This dance was a cause of almost open war, and 
the whole neighborhood declared they would have 



312 



THE SKE TCH-B O OK. 



nothing more to say to the Lambs. It is true that 
Mrs. Lamb, when she had no engagements with her 
quahty acquaintance, would give httle humdrum 
tea-junketings to some of her old cronies, "quite," 
as she would say, " in a friendly way ; " and it 
is equally true that her invitations were always 
accepted, in spiie of all previous vows to the con- 
trarv. Nay, the good ladies would sit and be 
delighted with the music of the Miss Lambs, who 
would condescend to strum an Irish melody for 
them on the piano ; and they would listen with 
wonderful interest to Mrs. Lamb's anecdotes of 
Alderman Plunket's family, of Portsoken Ward, 
and the Miss Timberlakes, the rich heiresses of 
Crutched P'riars ; but then they relieved their con- 
sciences and averted the reproaches of their con- 
federates by canvassing at the next gossiping con- 
vocation everything that had passed, and pulling 
the Lambs and their rout all to pieces. 

The only one of the family that could not be 
made fashionable was the retired butcher himself. 
Honest Lamb, in spite of the meekness of his 
name, was a rough, hearty old fellow, with the 
voice of a lion, a head of black hair like a shoe-brush, 
and a broad face mottled like his ov.n beef. It was 
in vani that the daughters always spoke of him as 
" the old gentleman," addressed him as " papa " 
in tones of infinite softness, and endeavored to coax 
him into a dressing-gown and slippers and other 
gentlemanly habits. Do what they might, there 
was no keeping down the butcher. His sturdy 
nature would break through all their glozings. He 
had a hearty vulgar good-liumor that was irrepress- 
ible. His very jokes made his sensitive daughters 



LITTLE BRITATW 



313 



shudder, and he persisted in wearing his blue cotton 
coat of a morning, dining at two o'clock, and hav- 
ing a "bit of sausage with his tea." 

He was doomed, however, to share the un 
popularity of his family. He found his old com- 
rades gradually growing cold and civil to him, no 
longer laughing at his jokes, and now and then 
throwing out a liing at "some people" and a hint 
about " quality binding." This both nettled and 
perplexed the honest butcher ; and his wife and 
daughters, with the consummate policy of the 
shrewder sex, taking advantage of the circumstance, 
at length prevailed upon him to give up his after- 
noon's pipe and tankard at Wagstaff's, to sit after 
dinner by himself and take his pint of port — a 
liquor he detested — and to nod in his chair in soli- 
tarv and dismal jrentilitv. 

The jMiss Lambs might now be seen flaunting 
along the streets in French bonnets with unknown 
beaux, and talking and laughing so loud that it 
distressed the nerves of every good lady within 
hearing. They even went so far as to attempt 
patronage, and actually induced a French dancing- 
master to set up in the neighborhood ; but the 
worthy folks of Little Britain took flre at it, and 
did so persecute the poor Gaul that he was fain to 
pack up fiddle and dancing-pumps and decamp 
with such precipitation that he absolutely forgot to 
pay for his lodgings. 

I had flattered myself, at first, with the idea thaf 
all this fiery indignation on the part of the com- 
munity was merely the overflowing of their zeal for 
good old English manners and their horror of 
innovation, and I applauded the silent contempt 



314 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 



they were so vociferous in expressing for upstart 
pride, French fashions, and the Miss Lambs. But 
I grieve to say that I soon perceived the infection 
had taken hold, and that my neighbors, after con- 
demning, were beginning to follow their example. 
I overheard my landlady importuning her husband 
to let their daughters have one quarter at French 
and music, and that they might take a few lessons 
in quadrille. I even saw, in the course of a few 
Sundays, no less than five French bonnets, precisely 
like those of the Miss Lambs, parading about 
Little Britain. 

I still had my hopes that all this folly would 
gradually die away, that the Lambs might move 
out of the neighborhood, might die, or might run 
away with attorneys' apprentices, and that quief 
and simplicity might be again restored to the 
community. But unluckily a rival power arose. 
An opulent oilman died, and left a widow with a 
large jointure and a family of buxom daughters. 
The young ladies had long been repining in secret 
at the parsimony of a prudent father, which kept 
down all their elegant aspirings. Their ambition, 
beinoj now no lonjjer restrained, broke out into a 
blaze, and they openly took the field against the 
family of the butcher. It is true that the Lambs, 
having had the first start, had naturally an advan- 
tage of them in the fashionable career. They could 
speak a little bad French, play the piano, dance 
quadrilles, and had formed high acquamtances, 
but the Trotters were not to be distanced. When 
the Lambs appeared with two feathers in their 
hats, the Miss Trotters mounted four and of twice 
as line colors. If the Lambs gave a dance, the 



LITTLE B RITA IX. 315 

Trotters were sure not to be behindhand ; and, 
though they might not boast of as good company, 
yet they had double the number and were twice as 
merry. 

The whole community has at length divided 
itself into fashionable factions under the banners 
of these two families. The old games of Pope- 
Joan and Tom-come-tickle-me are entirely discard- 
ed ; there is no such thing as getting up an honest 
country dance ; and on my attempting to kiss a 
young lady under the mistletoe last Christmas, I 
was indignantly repulsed, the Miss Lambs having 
pronounced it " shocking vulgar." Bitter rivalry 
has also broken out as to the most fashionable part 
of Little Britain, the Lambs standing up for the 
dignity of Cross-Keys Square, and the Trotters for 
ihe vicmity of St. Bartholomew's. 

Thus is this little territory torn by factions and 
internal dissensions, like the great empire whose 
name it bears ; and what will be the result would 
puzzle the apothecary himself, with all his talent at 
prognostics, to determine, though I apprehend that 
it wHl terminate in the total downfall of genuine 
John Bull ism. 

The immediate effects are extremely unpleasant 
to me. Being a single man, and, as I observed 
before, rather an idle good-for-nothing personage, 
I have been considered the only gentleman by pro- 
fession in the place. I stand therefore in high 
favor with both parties, and have to hear all their 
cabinet counsels and mutual backbitings. As I 
am too civil not to agree with the ladies on all oc- 
casions, I have committed myself most horribly 
with both parties by abusing their opponents. I 



3i6 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

might manage to reconcile this to my conscience, 

which is a truly accommodating one, but I cannot to 

my apprehension : if the Lambs and Trotters ever 

'•come to a reconciliation and compare notes, I am 

iruined ! 

I have determined, therefore, to beat a retreat in 
time, and am actually looking out for some other 
nest in this great city where old English manners 
are still kept up, where French is neither eaten, 
• drunk, danced, nor spoken, and where there are no 
ifashionable families of retired tradesmen. This 
iJound, 1 will, like a veteran rat, hasten away before 
I have an old house about my ears, bid a long, 
though a sorrowful adieu to my present abode, and 
leave the rival factions of the Lambs and the Trot- 
ters to divide the distracted empire of Litti,e 
Britain. 



3^7 



^ ^.\rFORD-ON-AVON. 

Thou soft-flowing Avo;i, by thy silver stream 

Of things more than mortal sweet Shakespeare would dream j 

The fairies by moonlight dance round his green bed, 

For hallow'd the turf is which pillow'd his head. 

Garrick. 

To a homeless man, who has no spot on this 
wide world which he can truly call his own, there 
is a momentary feeling of something like indepen- 
dence and terrilorial consequence when, after a 
weary day's travel, he kicks off his boots, thrusts 
his feet into slippers, and stretches himself before 
an inn-fire. Let the world without go as it may^ 
let kingdoms rise or fall, so long as he has the 
wherewithal to pay his bill he is, for the time be- 
ing, the very monarch of all he surveys. The arm- 
chair is his throne, the poker his sceptre, and the 
little parlor, some twelve feet square, his undis- 
puted empire. It is a morsel of certainty snatched 
from the midst of the uncertainties of life ; it is a 
sunny moment gleaming out kindly on a cloudy 
day : and he wht) has advanced some way on the 
pilgrimage of existence knows the importance of 
husbanding even morsels and moments of enjoy- 
ment. " Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn ?'* 
thought I, as I gave the fire a stir, lolled back in 
my elbow-chair, and cast a complacent look about 
the little parlor of the Red Horse at Stratford-on- 
Avon. 



3i8 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

The words of sweet Shakespeare were just pass 
ing through my mind as the clock struck midnight 
from the tower of the church in which he Hes 
buried. There was a gentle tap at the door, and a 
pretty chambermaid, putting in her smiling face, 
inquired, with a hesitating air, whether I had rung. 
I understood it as a modest hint that it was time to 
retire. My dream of absolute dominion was at an 
end ; so abdicating my throne, like a prudent po- 
tentate, to avoid being deposed, and putting the 
Stratford Guide-Book under my arm as a pillow 
companion, I went to bed, and dreamt all night of 
Shakespeare, the Jubilee, and David Garrick. 

The next morning was one of those quickening 
mornings which we sometimes have in early spring, 
for it was about the middle of March. The chills; 
of a long winter had suddenly given way; the 
north wind had spent its last gasp ; and a mild 
air came stealing from the west, breathing the 
breath of life into Nature, and wooing every bud 
and flower to burst forth into fragrance and beauty. 

I had come to Straiford on a poetical pilgrimage. 
My first visit was to the house where Shakespeare 
was born, and where, according to tradition, he was 
brought up to his father's craft of wool-combing. 
It is a small mean-looking edifice of wood and 
plaster, a true nestling-place of genius, which seems 
to delight in hatching its offspring in by-corners. 
The walls of its squalid chambers are covered with 
names and inscriptions in every language by pil- 
grims of all nations, ranks, and conditions, from 
the prince to the peasant, and present a simple \y\xt 
striking instance of the spontaneous and universal 
homage of mankind to the great poet of Nature. 



STRA TFORD-ON-A VON. 319 

The house is shown by a garrulous old lady in a 
frosty red face, lighted up by a cold 'blue, anxious 
tjye, and garnished with artificial locks of tiaxen hair 
(:uriing from under an exceedingly dirty cap. She 
was peculiarly assiduous in exhibiting the relics 
with which this, like all other celebrated shrines, 
abounds. There was the shattered stock of the very 
mntchlock with which Shakespeare shot the deer on 
his p )achinc; exploits. There, too, was his tobacco- 
box, which proves that he was a rival smoker of Sir 
Waiter Raleigh : the sword also with which he 
played Hamlet; and the identical lantern with 
which Friar Laurence discovered Romeo and 
Tuli(-t at the tomb: There was an ample supply 
also of Shakespeare's mulberry tree, which seems 
to have as extraordinary powers of self-multiplica- 
tion as the wood of the true cross, of which there 
is enough extant to build a ship of the line. 

The most favorite object of curiosity, however, 
is Shakespeare's chair. It stands in a chimney- 
nook of a* small gloomy chamber just behind what 
was his father's shop. Here he may many a time 
have sat whea a bov, watching the slowly revolv- 
ing spit with all the longing of an urchin, or of 
an evening listening to the cronies and gossips 
of Stratford dealing forth churchyard tales and 
lecrendary anecdotes of the troublesome times of 
Eno-iand. In this chair it is the custom of every 
one that visits the house to sit: whether this be 
done with the hope of imbibing any of the inspiration 
of the bard I am at a loss to say ; I merely mention 
the fact, and mine hostess privately assured me that, 
thouo-h built of solid oak, such was the fervent zeal 
of de'votees the chair had to be new bottomed at 



320 



TIIK ^ yv'/i TCH-B O OK. 



least once in three years. It is worthy of notice 
also, in the history of this extraordinary chair, 
that it partakes something of the volatile nature of 
the Santa Casa of Loretto, or the flying chair of the 
Arabian enchanter; for, though sold some few- 
years since to a northern princess, yet, strange to 
tell, it has found its way back again to the old 
chimney-corner. 

I am always of easy faith in such matters, and 
am ever willing to be deceived where the deceit is 
pleasant and costs nothing. 1 am therefore a ready 
believer in relics, legends, and local anecdotes of 
goblins and great men, and would advise all 
travellers w^ho travel for their gratification to be 
the same. What is it to us whether these stories 
be true or false, so long as we can persuade our- 
selves into the belief of them and enjoy all the 
charm of the reality ? There is nothing like resolute 

iTOod-humored credulity in these matters, and on 

■' ... 

this occasion I went even so far as willingly to be- 
lieve the claims of mine hostess to a lineal* descent 
from the poet, when, unluckily for my faith, she put 
into my hands a play of her own composition, which 
set all belief in her own consanguinity at defiance. 
From the birthplace of Shakespeare a few paces 
brought me to his grave. He lies buried in the 
chancel of the 'jarish church, a large and venerable 
pile, mouldering with age, but richly ornamented. 
It stands on the banks of the Avon on an em- 
bowered point, and separated by adjoining gardens 
from the suburbs of the town. Its situation is quiet 
and retired ; the river runs murmuring at the foot 
of the churchyard, and the elms w^hich grow upon 
its banks droop their branches into its clear bosom. 



S TRA TFORD'OX- A VOiY. 32 X 

An avenue of limes, the boughs of which are curi- - 
ously interlaced, so as to form in summer an arched 
way of foliage, leads up from the gate of the yard 
to the church-porch. The graves are overgrown 
with f^rass ; the gray tombstones, some of them 
nearly sunk into the earth, are half covered with 
moss^ which has likewise tinted the reverend old 
building. Small birds have built their nests among^ 
the cornices and fissures of the walls, and keep up 
a continual flutter and chirping; and rooks are 
sailing and cawing about its lofty gray spire. 

In the course of my rambles I met with the 
gray-headed sexton, Edmonds, and accompanied 
hirn home to get 'the key of the church. He had 
lived in Stratford, man and boy, for eighty years^ 
and seemed still to consider himself a vigorous 
man, with the trivial exception that he had nearly 
lost the use of his legs for a few years past. His 
dwelling was a cottage looking out upon the Avon 
and its bordering meadows, and was a picture of 
that neatness, order, and comfort which pervade 
the humblest dwellings in this country. A low 
whitewashed room, with a stone floor carefully 
scrubbed, served for parlor, kitchen, and hall. 
Rows of pewter and earthen dishes glittered along 
the dresser. On an old oaken table, well rubbed 
and polished, lay the family Bible and prayer-book, 
and the d*rawer contained the family library, com- 
posed of about half a score of well-thumbed volumes. 
An ancient clock, that important article of cottage 
furnittire, ticked an the opposite side of the room, 
with a bright warming-pan hanging on one side of 
it, and the old man's horn-handled Sunday cane on? 
the other. The fireplace, as usual, was wide and 
21 



322 THE SKETCH-BOOK, 

deep enough to admit a gossip knot within its 
jambs. In one corner sat the old man's grand- 
daughter sewing, a pretty blue-eyed girl, and in the 
•opposite corner was a superannuated crony whom 
he addressed by the name of John Ange, and who, 
I found, had been his companion from childhood. 
They had played together in infancy ; they had 
"worked together in manhood ; they were now tot- 
tering about and gossiping away the evening of 
life ; and in a short time they will probably be 
'buried together in the neighboring church)- ard. 
It IS not often that we see two streams of existence 
^running thus evenly and tranquilly side by side ; it 
is only in such quiet " bosom scenes " of life that 
they are to be met with. 

I had hoped to gather some traditionary anec- 
dotes of the bard from these ancient chroniclers, 
but they had nothing new to impart. The long 
interval during which Shakespeare's writings lay 
in comparative neglect has spread its shadow over 
his history, and it is his good or evil lot that scarcely 
anything remains to his biographers but a scanty 
handful of conjectures. 

The sexton and his companion had been em- 
ployed as carpenters on the preparations for the 
celebrated Stratford Jubilee, and they remembered 
Garrick, the prime mover of the fete, w^o superin- 
tended the arrangements, and who, according to 
the sexton, was " a short punch man, very lively 
and bustling." John Ange had assisted also in 
cutting down Shakespeare's mulberry tree, of 
which he had a morsel in his pocket for sale ; 
no doubt a sovereign quickener of literary concep- 
tion. 



S TRA TFORD-ON-A VON. 323 

I was grieved to liear these two worthy wights 
speak very dubiously of the eloquent dame who 
shows the Shakespeare house. John Ange shook 
his head when I mentioned her valuable and inex- 
haustible collection of relics, particularly her re- 
mains of the mulberry tree ; and the old sexton 
even expressed a doubt as to Shakespeare having 
been born in her house. I soon discovered that he 
looked upon her mansion with an evil eye, as a rival 
to the poet's tomb, the latter having comparatively 
but few visitors. Thus it is that historians differ 
at the very outset, and mere pebbles make the 
stream of truth diverge into different channels even 
at the fountain-head. 

We approached the church through the avenue 
of limes, and entered by a Gothic porch, highly or- 
namented, with carved doors of massive oak. The 
interior is spacious, and the architecture and em- 
bellishments superior to those of most country 
churches. There are several ancient monuments 
of nobility and gentry, over some of which hang 
funeral escutcheons and banners dropping piece- 
meal from the walls. The tomb of Shakespeare is 
in the chancel. The place is solemn and sepul- 
chral. Tall elms wave before the pointed windows, 
and the Avon, which runs at a short distance from 
the walls, keeps up a low perpetual murmur. A flat 
stone marks the spot where the bard is buried. 
There are four lines inscribed on it, said to have 
been written by himself, and which have in them 
something extremely awful. If they are indeed his 
own, they show that solicitude about the quiet of 
the grave which seems natural to fine sensibilities 
and thoughtful minds : 



324 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

Good friend, for Jesus' sake, forbeare 
To dig the dust inclosed here. 
Blessed be he that spares these stones, 
And curst be he that moves my bones. 

Just over the grave, ii; a niche of the wall, is a 
bust of Shakespeare, put up shortly after his death 
and considered as a resemblance. The aspect is 
pleasant and serene, with a finely-arched forehead ; 
and I thought I could read in it clear indications 
of that cheerful, social disposition by which he was 
as much characterized among his contemporaries 
as by the vastness of his genius. The inscription 
mentions his age at the time of his decease, fifty- 
three years — an untimely death for the world, for 
what fruit might not have been expected from the 
golden autumn of such a mind, sheltered as it was 
from the stormy vicissitudes of life, and flourishing 
in the sunshine of popular and royal favor ? 

The inscription on the tombstone has not been 
without its effect. It has prevented ihe removal of 
his remains from the bosom of his native place to 
Westminster Abbey, which was at one time contem- 
plated, A few years since also, as some laborers 
were digging to make an adjoining vault, the earth 
caved in, so as to leave 2 vacant space almost like 
an arch, through wdiich cue might have reached into 
his grave. No one, however, presumed to meddle 
with his remains so awfully guarded by a maledic- 
tion ; and lest any of the idle or the curious or any 
collector of relics should be tempted to commit dep- 
redaiions, the old sexton kept watch over the place 
for two days, until the vault was finished and the 
aperture closed again. He told me that he had 
made bold to look in at the hole, but could see 



^- TKA J ^FORD- ON- A VOiY. 325 

neither coffin nor bones — nothing but dust. It was 
something, I thought, to have seen the dust of 
Shakespeare. 

Next to this grave are those of his wife, his favor- 
ite daughter, Mrs. Hall, and others of his family. 
On a tomb close by, also, is a full-length effigy of 
his old friend John Combe, of usurious memory, on 
whom he is said to have written a ludicrous epitaph. 
There are other monuments around, but the mind 
refuses to dwell on anything that is not connected 
with Shakespeaie. His idea pervades the place; 
the whole pile seems but as his mausoleum. The 
feelings, no longer checked and thwarted by doubt, 
here indulge in perfect confidence : other traces of 
him may be false or dubious, but here is palpable 
evidence and absolute certaint\'. As I trod the 
sounding pavement there was something intense 
and thrilling in the idea that in very truth the re- 
mains of Shakespeare were mouldering beneath my 
feet. It was a long time before I could prevail 
upon myself to leave the place; and as I passed 
through the churchyard I plucked a branch from 
one of the yew trees, the only relic that I have 
brought from Stratford. 

I had now visited the usual objects of a pilgrim's 
devotion, but I had a desire to see the old family 
seat of the Lucys at Charlecot, and to ramble 
through the park where Shakespeare, in company 
wilii some of the roisterers of Stratford, committed 
his youthful offence of deer-stealing. In this hare- 
brained exploit we are told that he was taken pris- 
oner and carried to the keeper's lodge, where he 
remained all night in doleful captivity. When 
brought into the presence of Sir Thomas Lucy his 



-2 6 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

treatment must have been galling and humiliating: 
for it so wrought upon his spirit as to produce a 
rough pasquinade which was affixed to the park 
gate at Charlecot. * 

This flagitious attack upon the dignity of the 
knight so incense'd him that he applied to a lawyer 
at Warwick to put the severity of the laws in force 
against the rhyming deer-stalker. Shakespeare did 
not wait to brave the united puissance of a knight 
of the shire and a country attorney. He forthwith 
abandoned the pleasant banks of the Avon and his 
paternal trade ; wandered away to London ; be- 
came a hanger-on to the theatres ; then an actor; 
and Anally wrote for the stage ; and thus, through 
the persecution of Sir Thomas Lucy, Stratford lost 
an indifferent wool-comber and the world gained an 
immortal poet. He retained, however, for a long 
time, a sense of the harsh treatment of the lord of 
Charlecot, and revenged himself in his writings, but 
in the sportive way of a good-natured mind. Sir 
Thomas is said to be the original of Justice Shallow, 
and the satire is slyly fixed upon him by the jus- 
tice's armorial bearings, which, like those of the 
knight, had white luces t in the quarterings. 

* The following is the only stanza extant of this lampoon • 

A parliament member, a justice of peace, 
At home a poor scarecrow, at London an asse, 
If lowsie is Lucy, as some volke miscalle it, 
Then i^ucy s lowsie, whatever befall it. 

He thinks himself great ; 

Yet an asse in his state, 
\Ye allow by his ears but with asses to mate, 
If Lucy is lowsie, as some volke miscalle it 
Then sing lowsie Lucy whatever befall it. 

f Tbeluce is a pike or jack, and abounds in the Avon abouv 
Charlecv*, 



STRA TFORD-OiY-A VON. 



Z-1 



Various attempts have been made by his biogra- 
phers to soften and explain away this early trans- 
gression of the poet ; but 1 look upon it as one of 
those thoughtless exploits natural to his situation 
and turn of mind. Shakespeare, when young, had 
doubtless all the wildness and irregularity of an ar- 
dent, undisciplined, and undirected genius. The 
poetic temperament has naturally something in it of 
the vagabond. When left to itself it runs loosely 
and wildly, and delights in everything eccentric and 
licentious. It is often a turn up of a die, in the 
gambling freaks of fate, whether a natural genius 
shall turn out a great rogue or a great poet ; and had 
not Shakespeare's mind fortunately taken a literary 
bias, he might have as daringly transcended all 
civil as he has all dramatic laws. 

1 have little doubt that, in early life, when 
running like an unbroken colt about the neighbor- 
hood of Stratford, he was to be found in the com- 
pany of all kinds of odd anomalous characters, 
that he associated with all the madcaps of the 
place, and was one of those unlucky urchins at 
mention of whom old men shake their heads and 
predict that they will one day come to the gallows. 
To him the poaching in Sir Thomas Lucy's park 
^vas doubtless like a foray to a Scottish knight, and 
struck his eager, and as yet untamed, imagination 
as something delightfully adventurous.* 

* A proof of Shakespeare's random habits and assoc->tes 
in hi" youthful days may be found in a traditionary anecdote, 
picked up at Stratford by the elder Ireland, and mentioned 
in his " Picturesque Views on the Avon." 

About seven miles from Stratford lies the thirsty little 
market-town of Bedford, famous for its ale Two societies 
of the village yeomanry used to meet, under the appellation 



^zS THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

The old mansion of Charlecot and its surrounding 
park still remain in the possession of the Lucy 
family, and are peculiarly interesting from being 
connected with this whimsical but eventful circum- 
stance in the scanty history of the bard. As the 
house stood at little more than three miles' distance 
from Stratford, I resolved to pay it a pedestrian 
visit, that I might stroll leisurely through some of 
those scenes from which Shakespeare must have 
derived his earliest ideas of rural imagery. 

The country was yet naked and leafless, but 
English scenery is always verdant, and the sudden 

of the Bedford topers, and to challenge the lovers of good 
ale of the neighboring villages to a contest of drinking. 
Among others, the people of Stratford were called out to 
prove the strength of their heads ; and in the number of the 
champions was vShakespeare, who, in spite of the proverb 
that " they who drink beer will think beer," was as true 
to his ale as Falstaff to his sack. The chivalry of Stratford 
was staggered at the first onset, and sounded a retreat while 
they had yet the legs to carry them off the field. They had 
scarcely marched a mile when, their legs failing them, they 
were forced to lie down under a crab tree, where they passed 
the night. It was still standing, and goes by the name of 
Shakespeare's tree. 

In the morning his companions awaked the bard, and pro- 
posed returning to Bedford, but he declined, saying he had 
enough, having drank with 

Piping Pebworth, Dancing Marston, 
Haunted Hilbro', Hungry Grafton, 
Dudging Exhall, Papist Wicksford, 
Beggarly Broom, and Drunken Bedford. 

" The villages here alluded to," says Ireland, " still beai* 
the epithets thus given them : the people of Pebworth are 
still famed for their skill on the pipe and tabor ; Hilborough 
IS now called Haunted Hilborough ; and Grafton is famous 

for the poverty of its soil." 



S TRA TFOKD- ON- A VON. 329 

change in the temperature of the weather was sur- 
prising in its quickening effects upon the land- 
scape. It was inspiring and animating to witness 
this first awakening of spring ; to feel its warm 
breath stealing over the senses ; to see the moist 
mellow earth beginning to put forth the green 
sprout and the tender blade, and the trees and 
shrubs, in their reviving tints and bursting buds, 
giving the promise of returning foliage and flower. 
The cold snow-drop, that little borderer on the 
skirts of winter, was to be seen with its chaste 
white blossoms in the small gardens before the 
cottages. The bleating of the new-dropt lambs 
was faintly heard from the fields. The sparrow* 
twittered about the' thatched eaves and budding 
hedges; the robin threw a livelier note into his late 
querulous wintry strain ; and the lark, springing 
up from the reeking bosom of the meadow, towered 
away into the bright fleecy cloud, pouriflg forth 
torrents of melody. As I watched the little songster 
mounting up higher and higher, until his body was 
a mere speck on the white bosom of the cloud, 
while the ear was still filled with his music, it 
called to mind Shakespeare's exquisite little song 
in Cvmbeline : 

Hark ! hark ! the lark at heav'n's gate smgs, 

And Phoebus 'gins arise, 
His steeds to water at those spriiigs, 

On chahced flowers that lies. 

And winking mary-buds begin 

To ope their golden eyes ; 
With every thingthat pretty bin, 

My lady sweet arise ! 

Indeed, the whole country about here is poetic 



3SO 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 



ground : everything is associated with the idea of 
Shakespeare. Every old cottage that I saw I 
fancied into some resort of his boyhood, where he 
had acquired his intimate knowledge of rustic hfe 
and manners, and heard those legendary tales and 
wild superstitions which he has woven like witch- 
craft into his dramas. For in his time, we are told, 
it was a popular amusement in winter evenings " to 
sit round the fire, and tell merry tales of errant 
knights, queens, lovers, lords, ladies, giants, dwarfs, 
thieves, cheaters, witches, fairies, goblins, and 
friars." * 

My route for a part of the way lay in sight of the 
Avon, which made a variety of the most fancy 
doublings and windings through a wide and fertile 
valley — sometimes glittering from among willows 
which fringed its borders ; sometimes disappearing^ 
among groves or beneath green banks ; and some- 
times rambling out into full view and making an 
azure sweep round a slope of meadow-land. This 
beautiful bosom of country is called the Vale of the 
Red Horse. A distant line of undulating blue 
hills seems to be its boundary, whilst all the soft 
intervening landscape lies in a manner enchained 
in the silver links of the Avon. 

After pursuing the road for about three miles, I 

* Scot, in his " Discoverie of Witchcraft," enumerates a 
of these fireside fancies : " And they have so fraid us with host 
bull-beggars, spirits, witches, urchins, elves, hags, fairies, 
satyrs, pans, faunes, syrens, kit with the can sticke, tritons,. 
centaurs, dwarf es, giantes, imps, calcars, conjurors, nymphes, 
changelings, incubus, Robin-goodfellow, the spoorne, the 
mare, the man in the oke, the hell-waine, the fier drake, the 
puckle, Tom Thombe, hobgoblins, Tom Tumbler, boneless, 
and such other bugs,that we were afraid of our own shadowes." 



S TRA TFOKD- OX- A VON. t^t^ r 

turned off into a footpath, which led along the 
borders of fields and under hedgerows to a private 
gate of the park ; there was a stile, however, for the 
benefit of the pedestrian, there being a public right 
of way through the grounds. 1 delight in these 
hospitable estates, in which every one has a kind 
of property — at least as far as the footpath is con- 
cerned. It in some measure reconciles a poor man 
to his lot, and, what is more, to the better lot of 
his neighbor, thus to have parks and pleasure- 
grounds thrown open for his recreation. He 
breathes the pure air as freely and lolls as luxu- 
riously under the shade as the lord of the soil ; 
and if he has not the privilege of calling all that he 
sees his own, he has not, at the same time, the 
trouble of paying for it and keeping it in order. 

I now found myself among noble avenues of 
oaks and elms, whose vast size bespoke the growth 
of centuries. The wind sounded solemnly among 
their branches, and the rooks cawed from their 
hereditary nests in the tree-tops. The eye ranged 
through a long lessening vista, with nothing to 
interrupt the view but a distant statue and a 
vagrant deer stalking like a shadow across the 
opening. 

There is something about these stately old ave- 
nues that has the effect of Gothic architecture, not 
merely from the pretended similarity of form, but 
from their bearing the evidence of long duration, 
and of having had their origin in a period of time 
with which we associate ideas of romantic grand- 
eur. They betoken also the long-settled dignity 
and proudly-concentrated independence of an 
ancient family ; and I have heard a worthy but 



3o' 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 



aristocratic old friend observe, when speaking of 
the sumptuous palaces of modern gentr}^, that 
" money could do much witii stone and mortar, but 
thank Heaven ! there was no such thing as suddenly- 
building up an avenue of oaks." 

It was from wandering in early life among this 
rich scenery, and about the romantic solitudes of 
the adjoining park of FuUbroke, which then formed 
a part of the Lucy estate, that some of Shake- 
peare's commentators have supposed he derived 
his noble forest meditations of Jaques and the en- 
chanting woodland pictures in " As You Like It." It 
is in lonely wanderings through such scenes that 
the mind drinks deep but quiet draughts of inspira- 
tion, and becomes intensely sensible of the beauty 
and majesty of Nature. The imagination kindles 
into reverie and rapture, vague but exquisite images 
and ideas keep breaking upon it, and we revel in a 
mute and almost incommunicable luxur}^ of thought. 
It was in some such mood, and perhaps under one 
of those very trees before me, which threw their 
broad shades over the grassy banks and quivering 
waters of the Avon, i.iat the poet's fancy may have 
sallied forth into that little song which breathes the 
very soul of a rural voluptuary : 

Unto the greenwood tree, 

Who loves to lie with me 

And tune his merry throat 

Unto the sweet bird's note, 

Come hither, come hither, come hither. 

Here shall he see 

No enemy, 
But winter and rough weather. 

I had now come in sight of the house. It is a 



^77?^ TFORD-OX-A VOA^. ^t^t^ 

large building of brick with stone quoins, and is in 
the Gotliic style of Queen Elizabeth's day, having 
been built in the first year of her reign. The ex- 
terior remains very nearly in its original state, and 
may be considered a fair specimen of the residence 
of a wealthy country gentleman of those days. A 
great gateway opens from the park into a kind of 
courtyard in front of the house, ornamented with a 
grassplot, shrubs, and flower-beds. The gateway 
is in imitation of the ancient barbacan, being a 
kind of outpost and flanked by towers, though 
evidently for mere ornament, instead of defence. 
The front of the house is completely in the old 
style with stone-shafted casements, a great bow- 
window of heavy stone-work, and a portal with ar- 
morial bearings over it carved in stone. At each 
corner of the building is an octagon tower sur- 
mounted by a gilt ball and weather-cock. 

The Avon, which winds through the park, makes 
a bend just at the foot of a gently-sloping bank 
which sweeps down from the rear of the house. 
Large herds of deer were feeding or reposing upon 
its borders, and swans were sailing majestically 
upon its bosom. As I contemplated the venerable 
old mansion I called to mind Falstaff's encomium 
on Justice Shallow's abode, and the affected indif- 
ference and real vanity of the latter : 

" Falstaff. You have a goodly dwelling and a rich. 
" SJiaUo'iv. Barren, barren, l^arren ; beggars all, beggars' 
all, Sh- John : — marry, good air." 

Whatever may have been the joviality of the old 
mansion in the days of Shakespeare, it had now 
an air of stillness and solitude. The great iron 



334 '^^^^ SKETCH-BOOK. 

gateway that opened into the courtyard was locked \ 
there was no show of servants bustling about the 
place ; the deer gazed quietly at me as I passed, 
being no longer harried by the moss-troopers of 
Stratford. The only sign of domestic life that I 
met with was a white cat stealing with wary look 
and stealthy pace towards the stables, as if on some 
nefarious expedition. I must not omit to mention 
the carcass of a scoundrel crow which I saw sus- 
pended against the barn-wall, as it shows that the 
Lucys still inherit that lordly abhorrence of poach- 
ers and maintain that rigorous exercise of territorial 
power which was so strenuously manifested in the 
case of the bard. 

After prowling about for some time, I at length 
found my way to a lateral portal, which was the 
every-day entrance to the mansion, I was courte- 
ously received by a worthy old housekeeper, who, 
with the civility and communicativeness of her 
order, showed me the interior of the house. The 
greater part has undergone alterations and been 
adapted to modern tastes and modes of living : 
there is a fine old oaken staircase, and the great, 
hall, that noble feature in an ancient manor-house, 
still retains much of the appearance it must have 
had in the days of Shakespeare. The ceiling is 
arched and lofty, and at one end is a gallery in 
which stands an organ. The weapons and trophies 
of the chase, which formerly adorned the hall of 
a country gentleman, have made way for family 
portraits. There is a wide, hospitable fireplace, 
calculated for an ample old-fashioned wood fire, 
formerly the rallying-place of winter festivity. On 
the opposite side of the hall is the huge Gothic. 



S TRA TFORD- OA ^-A VOA^. 335 

bow-window, with stone shafts, which looks out 
upon the courtyard. Here are emblazoned in 
stained glass the armorial bearings of the Lucy 
family for many generations, some being dated in 
1558. I was delighted to observe in the quarter- 
ings the three w/utc luces by which the character of 
Sir Thomas was first identified with that of Justice 
Shallow. They are mentioned in the first scene of 
the " Merry Wives of Windsor," where the justice, is 
in a rage with Falstaff for having " beaten his men, 
killed iiis deer, and- broken into his lodge." The 
poet had no doubt the offences of himself and his 
comrades in mind at the time, and we may suppose 
the family pride ^ and vindictive threats of the 
puissant Shallow to be a caricature of the pompous 
indignation of Sir Thomas. 

" Shallo7i). Sir If ugh, persuade me not : I will make a Star- 
Chamber matter of it ; if he were twenty John Falstaffs, he 
shall not abuse Sir Robert Shallow, Esq. 

Slender. In the county of Gloster, justice of peace and 

£07' a VI. 

Shallow. Ay. cousin Slender, and custalorinn. 

Slender. Ay, and ratal ornm too, and a gentleman born, 
master parson ; who writes himself Arriiigero in any bill, 
warrant, quittance, or obligation, Arviigero. 

Shallozu. Ay, that I do ; and have done any time these 
three hundred years. 

Slender. All his successors gone before him have done't, 
and all his ancestors that come after him may ; they may 
give the dozen white luces in their coat 

Shallozo. The council shall hear it; it is a riot. 

Evans. It is not meet the council hear of a riot ; there is 
no fear of Got in a riot; the council, hear you, shall desire 
to hear the fear of Got, and not to hear a riot ; take your 
vizaments in that. 

Shallozo. lia ! o' my life, if I were young again, the sword 
should end it ! " 



336 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

Near the window thus emblazoned hung a por- 
trait, by Sir Peter Lely, of one of the Lucy family, 
a great beauty of the lime of Charles the Second: 
the old housekeeper shook her head as she pointed 
to the picture, and informed me that this lady had 
been sadly addicted to cards, and had gambled 
away a great portion of the family estate, among 
which was that part of the park where Shakespeare 
and his comrades had killed the deer. The lands 
thus lost had not been entirely regained by the 
family even at the present day. It is but justice to 
this recreant dame to confess that she had a sur- 
passingly fine hand and arm. 

The picture which most attracted my attention 
was a great painting over the fireplace, containing 
likenesses of Sir Thomas Lucy and his family who 
inhal^ited the hall in the latter part of Shakespeare's 
lifetime. I at first thought that it was the vindictive 
knight himself, but the housekeeper assured me 
that it was his son ; the only likeness extant of 
the former being an efiigy upon his tomb in the 
church of the neighboring hamlet of Charlecot.* 

* This effigy is in white marble, and represents the knight 
in complete armor. Near him lies the effigy of his wife, and 
on her tomb is the following inscription ; .which, if really 
composed by her husband, places him quite aoove the 
intellectual level of Master Shallow : 

Here lyeth the Lady Joyce Lucy wife of Sir Thomas Lucy 
of Charlecot in ye county of Warwick, Knight, Daughter ana 
heir of Thomas Acton of Sutton in ye county of Worcestei 
Esquire who departed out of this wretched world to her 
heavenly kingdom ye lo day of February in ye yeare of our 
Lord God 1595 and of her age 60 and three. All the time of 
her lyfe a true and faythf|il servant of her good God, never 
detected of any cryme or vice. In religion most sounde, in 
love to her husband most faythful and true. In friendship 



STRA TFORD-ON-A VON. 337 

The picture gives a lively idea of the costume and 
manners of the time. Sir Thomas is dressed in 
ruff and doublet, white shoes with roses in them, 
and has a peaked yellow, or, as Master Slender 
would say, "a cane-colored beard." His lady is 
seated on the opposite side of the picture in wide 
ruff and long stomacher, and the children have a 
most venerable stiffness and formality of dress. 
Hounds and spaniels are mingled in the family 
group ; a hawk is seated on his perch in the fore- 
ground, and ome of the children holds a bow, all 
intimating the knight's skill in hunting, hawking, 
and archery, so indispensable to an accomplished 
gentleman in those days.* 

most constant; to what in trust was committed unto her 
most secret. In wisdom excelling. In governing of her 
house, bringing up of youth in ye fear of God that did con- 
verse with her moste rare and singular. A great maintayner 
of hospitality. Greatly esteemed of her betters ;misliked of 
none unless of the envyous. When all is spoken that can be 
saide a woman so garnished with virtue as not to be bettered 
and hardly to be equalled by any. As shee lived most virtu- 
ously so shee died most (iodly. Set downe by him yt best 
did knowe what hath byn written to be true. 

Thomas Lr.cye. 

* Bishop Earle, speaking of the country gentleman of his 
time, observes, "His housekeeping is seen much iii the 
different families of dogs and serving-men attendant on their 
kennels ; and the deepness of their throats is the depth of his 
discoui'se. A hawk he esteems the true burden of nobility, 
and is exceedingly ambitious to seem delighted with tlie sport, 
and have his fist gloved with his jesses." And Gilpin, in 
his description of a Mr. Hastings, remarks, " He kept all 
sorts of hounds that run buck, fox, hare, otter, and badger; 
and had hawks of all kinds both long and short winged. 
His great hall was commonly strewed with marrow-bones, 
and full of hawk perches, hounds, spaniels, and terriers. On 
a broad hearth, paved with brick, lay some of the choicest 
terriers, hounds, and spaniels.'' 
22 



^^8 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

I regretted to find that the ancient furniture o\ 
the hall had disappeared; for I had hoped to 
meet with the stately elbow-chair of carved oak in 
which the country squire of former days was wont 
to sway the sceptre of empire over his rural do- 
mains, and in which it might be presumed the 
redoubted Sir Thomas sat enthroned in awful state 
when the recreant Shakespeare was brought before 
him. As I like to deck out pictures for my own 
entertainment, I pleased myself with the idea that 
this very hall had been the scene of the unlucky 
bard's examination on the morning after his cap- 
tivity in the lodge. I fancied to myself the rural 
potentate surrounded by his body-guard of butler, 
pages, and blue-coated serving-men with their 
badges, while the luckless culprit was brought in, 
forlorn and chopfallen, in the custody of game- 
keepers, huntsmen, and whippers-in, and followed 
by a rabble rout of country clowns. I fancied 
bright faces of curious housemaids peeping from the 
half-opened doors, while from the gallery the fair 
daughters of the knight leaned gracefully forward, 
eyeing the youthful prisoner wdth that pity " that 
dwells in womanhood." Who would have thought 
that this poor varlet, thus trembling before the 
brief authority of a country squire, and the sport of 
rustic boors, was soon to become the delight of 
princes, the theme of all tongues and ages, the 
dictator to the human mind, and was to confer 
immortality on his oppressor by a caricature and 
a lampoon t 

I was now invited by the butler to walk into the 
garden, and I felt inclined to visit the orchard and 
harbor where the justice treated Sir Johr» Falstaff 



STRA TFORD-ON-A VOiY. 



339 



and Cousin Silence " to a last year's pippin of his 
own grafting, with a dish of caraways ; " but I had 
already spent so much of the day in my ramblings 
that I was obliged to give up any further investiga- 
tions. When about to take my leave I was grati- 
fied by the civil entreaties of the housekeeper and 
butler that I would take some refreshment — an 
instance of good old hospitality wdiich, I grieve to 
say, we castle-hunters seldom meet with in modern 
days. I make no doubt it is a virtue which the 
present representative of the Lucys inherits from 
his ancestors ; for Shakespeare, even in his carica- 
ture, makes Justice Shallow importunate in this 
respect, as witness his pressing instances to Fal- 
staif : 

" By cock and pye, Sir, you shall not away to-night 

I will not excuse you ; you shall not be excused ; excuses 
shall not be admitted; there is no excuse shall serve; you 

shall not be excused Some pigeons, Davy, a couple of 

short-legged hens ; a joint of mutton ; and any pretty little 
tiny kickshaws, tell ' William Cook.' " 

I now bade a reluctant farewell to the old hall. 
My mind had become so completely possessed by 
the imaginary scenes and characters connected 
with it that I seemed to be actually living among 
them. Everything brought them as it were before 
my eyes, and as the door of the dining-room opened 
I almost expected to hear the feeble voice of Master 
Silence quavering forth his favorite ditty : 

" 'Tis merry in hall, when beards wag all, 
And welcome merry Shrove-tide ! " 

On returning to my inn I could not but reflect on 
the singular gift of the poet, to be able thus to 



340 



THE SKElTir-BOOK. 



spread the magic of liis mind over the very face of 
Nature, to give to things and phices a charm and 
character not their own, and tc turn this '' working- 
day world " into a perfect fairy-land. He is indeed 
the true enchanter, wiiose spell operates, not upon 
the senses, but upon the imagination and the heart. 
Under the wizard intiuence of Shakespeare I had 
been walking all day in a complete delusion. I had 
surveyed the landscape through the prism of poetry, 
which tinged every object with the hues of the rain- 
bow. I had been surrounded with fancied beings, 
with mere airy nothings conjured up by poetic power, 
yet which, to me, had all the charm of reality. I^ 
had heard Jaques soliloquize beneath his oak ; had 
beheld the fair Rosalind and her companion ad- 
venturing through the woodlands ; and, above all, 
had been once more present in spiri^ with fat Jack 
Falstaff and his contemporaries, from the august 
Justice Shallow down to the gentle Master Slender 
and the sweet Anne Page. Ten thousand honors 
and blessings on the bard who has thus gilded the 
dull realities of life with innocent illusions, who has 
spread exquisite and unbought pleasures in my 
chequered path, and beguiled my spirit in many a 
lonely hour with all the cordial and cheerful sym- 
pathies of social life ! 

As I crossed the bridge over the Avon on my re- 
turn, I paused to contemplate the distant church in 
which the poet lies buried, and could not but exult 
in the malediction which has kept hjs ashes un- 
disturbed in its quiet and hallowed vaults. What 
honor could his name have derived from being 
mingled in dusty companionship with the epitaphs 
and escutcheons and venal eulogiums of a titled 



STRA l^FORD-OX-A VON. 341 

multitude ? What would a crowded corner in West- 
minster Abbey have been, compared with this rev- 
erend pile, which seems to stand in beautiful lone- 
liness as his sole mausoleum ! The solitude about 
the grave may be but the offspring of an over- 
wrought sensibility; but human nature is made up 
of foibles and prejudices, and ils best and tender- 
est affections are mingled widi these factitious feel- 
ings. He who has sought renown about the worid,, 
and has reaped a full harvest of worldly favor, will 
find, after ail, that there is no love, no admiration, 
no applause, so sweet to the soul as that which 
springs up in his native place. It is there that he 
seeks to be gathered in peace and honor among 
his kindred and his early friends. .\nd when the 
weary heart and failing head begin to warn him 
that the evening of life is drawing on, he turns as 
fondly as does the infant to the mother's arms to- 
sink to sleep in the bosom of the scene of his child- 
hood. 

How would it have cheered the spirit of the youth- 
ful bard when, wandering forth in disgrace upon a. 
doubtful world, he cast back a heavy look upon his 
paternal home, could he have foreseen that before- 
manv vears he should return to it covered with re- 
nown ; that his name should become the boast and 
glory of his native place ; that his ashes should be 
religiciusly guarded as its most precious treasure ; 
and (hat its lessening spire, on which his eyes were 
fixed in tearful contemplation, should one day be- 
come the beacon towering amidst the gentle land- 
scape to guide the literary pilgrim of every nation. 
to his tomb ! 



342 



THE SKETCH-BOOK, 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 

" I appeal to any white man if ever he entered Logan's 
cabin hungry, and he gave him not to eat; if ever he came 
cold and naked, and he clothed him not." — Speech of au J; - 
dian Chief. 

There is something in the character and habits 
of the North American savage, taken in connection 
with the scenery over which he is accustomed to 
range, its vast hikes, boundless forests, majestic 
rivers, and trackless plains, that is, to my mind, 
wonderfully striking and sublime. He is formed 
for the wilderness, as the Arab is for the desert. 
His nature is stern, simple, and enduring, fitted to 
grapple with difficulties and to support privations. 
There seems but little soil in his heart for the sup- 
port of the kindly virtues ; and yet, if we would 
but take the trouble to penetrate through that proud 
stoicism and habitual taciturnity which lock up his 
character from casual observation, we should find 
him linked to his fellow-man of civilized life by 
more of those sympathies and affections than are 
usually ascribed to him. 

It has been the lot of the unfortunate aborigines 
of America in the early periods of colonization to 
be doubly wronged by the white men. They have 
been dispossessed of their hereditary possessions 
by mercenary and frequently wanton warfare, and 
their characters have been traduced by bigoted 



TRAITS OF I XD IAN CHARACTER. 343 

and interested writers. Tlie colonists often treated 
Ihem like beasts of the forest, and the author has 
endeavored to justify him in his outrages. The 
former found it easier to exterminate than to civil- 
ize ; the latter to vilify than to discriminate. The 
appellations of savage and pagan were deemed 
sufficient to sanction the hostilities of both ; and 
thus the poor wanderers of the forest were per- 
secuted and defamed, not because they were guilty, 
but because thev were iij;norant. 

The rights of the savage have seldom been prop- 
erly appreciated or respected by the white man. 
In peace he has too often been the dupe of artful 
traffic ; in war he 'has been regarded as a ferocious 
animal whose life or death was a question of mere 
precaution and convenience. Man is cruelly w\aste- 
ful of life when his own safety is endangered and 
he is sheltered by impunity, and little mercy is to 
be expected from him when he feels the sting 
of the reptile and is conscious of the power to 
destroy. 

The same prejudices, which were indulged thus 
early, exist in common circulation at the present 
day. Certain learned societies have, it is true, with 
laudable diligence, endeavored to investigate and 
record the real characters and manners of the In- 
dian tribes ; the American government, too, has 
wisely and humanely exerted itself to inculcate a 
friendly and forbearing spirit towards them and to 
protect them from fraud and injustice.* The cur- 

*The American Government has been indefatigable in its 
exertions to ameliorate the situation of the Indians, and to 
introduce among them the arts of civilization and civil and 
religious knowledge. To protect them from the frauds of 



344 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 



rent opinion of tlie Indian character, however, is 
too apt to be formed from tlie miserable hordes 
whicii infest the frontiers and hang on the skirts of 
the settlements. These are too commonly com- 
posed of degenerate beings, corrupted and enfeebled 
by the vices of society, without being benefited by 
its civilization. 'I'hat proud independence which 
formed the main pillar of savage virtue has been 
shaken down, and the whole moral fabric lies in 
ruins. Their spirits are humiliated and debased 
by a sense of inferiority, and their native courage 
cowed and daunted by the superior knowledge and 
power of their enlightened neighbors. Society has 
advanced upon them like one of those withering airs 
that will sometimes breed desolation over a whole 
region of fertility. It has enervated their strength, 
multiplied their diseases, and superinduced upon 
their original barbarity the low vices of artificial 
life. It has given them a thousand superfluous 
wants, whilst it has diminished their means of mere 
existence. It has driven before it the animals of 
the chase, who fly from the sound of the axe and 
the smoke of the settlement and seek refuge in the 
depths of remoter forests and yet untrodden wilds. 
Thus do we too often find the Indians on our fron- 
tiers to be the mere wrecks and remnants of once 
powerful tribes, who have lingered in the vicinity 
of the settlements and sunk into precarious and 
vagabond existence. Poverty, repining and hope- 
less poverty, a canker of the mind unknown in 

the white traders no purchase of land from them by mdivid- 
uals is permitted, nor is any person allowed to receive lands 
from them as a present without the express sanction of 
government. These precautions are strictly enforced. 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 345 

savage life, corrodes their spirits and blights every 
free and noble quality of their natures. They be- 
come drunken, indolent, feeble, thievish, and pusil- 
lanimous. They loiter like vagrants about the set- 
tlements, among spacious dwellings replete with 
elaborate comforts, which only render them sensi- 
ble of the comparative wretchedness of their own 
condition. Luxury spreads its ample board before 
their eyes, but they are excluded from the banquet. 
Plenty revels over the fields, but they are starving 
in the midst of its abundance ; the whole wilder- 
ness has blossomed into a garden, but they feel as 
reptiles that infest it. 

How different 'was their state while yet the un- 
disputed lords of the soil ! Their wants were few 
and the means of gratification within their reach. 
They saw every one round them sharing the same 
lot, enduring the same hardships, feeding on the 
same aliments, arrayed in the same rude garments. 
No roof then rose but was open to the homeless 
stranger ; no smoke curled among the trees but he 
was welcome to sit down by its hre and join the 
hunter in his repast. " For," says an old historian 
of New England, " their life is so void of care, and 
they are so loving also, that the}^ make use of those 
things they enjoy as common goods, and are there- 
in so compassionate that rather than one should 
starve through want, they would starve all ; thus 
they pass their time merrily, not regarding our 
pomp, but are better content with their own, which 
some men esteem so meanly of." Such were the 
Indians whilst in the pride and energy of their 
primitive natures : they resembled those wild plants 
which thrive best in the shades of the forest, but 



346 TiiK sKi:rci/-r,ooK'. 

shrink from the hand of cultivation and perish be- 
rieath tlie influence of the sun. 

In discussing the savage character writers have 
been too prone to indulge in vulgar prejudice and 
passionate exaggeration, instead of the candid tem- 
per of true philosoph}'. They have not sufificiently 
considered the peculiar circumstances in which the 
Indians have been placed, and the peculiar princi- 
ples under which they have been educated. No 
being acts more rigidly from rule than the Indian. 
His whole conduct is regulated according to some 
general maxims early implanted in his mind. The 
moral laws that govern him are, to be sure, but 
few ; but then he conforms to them all ; the white 
man abounds in laws of religion, morals, and man- 
ners, but how many does he violate ! 

A frequent ground of accusation against the 
Indians is their disregard of treaties, and the 
treachery and wantonness with which, in time of 
apparent peace, they will suddenly fly to hostilities. 
The intercourse of the white men with the Indians, 
however, is too apt to be cold, distrustful, oppres- 
sive, and insulting. They seldom treat them with 
that confidence and frankness which are indispensa- 
ble to real friendship, nor is sufficient caution 
observed not to offend against those feelings of 
pride or superstition which often prompt the Indian 
to hostility quicker than mere considerations of 
interest. The solitary savage feels silently, but 
acutely. His sensibilities are not diffused over 
so wide a surface as those of the white man, but 
they run in steadier and deeper channels. Hi, 
pride, his affections, his superstitions, are all di 
rected towards fewer objects, but the wounds in 



TRAITS OF IXDIA.V CHARACl^ER. 347 

Hicted on them are proportionably severe, and 
furnish motives of hostility which we cannot suffi- 
ciently appreciate. Where a community is also 
limited in number, and forms one great patriarchal 
family, as in an Indian tribe, the injury of an in- 
dividual is the injury of the whole, and the senti- 
ment of vengeance is almost instantaneously dif- 
fused. One council-fire is sufficient for the discus- 
sion and arrangement of a plan of hostilities. Here 
all the fighting-men and sages assemble. Elo- 
quence and superstition combine to inflame the 
minds of the warriors. The orator awakens their 
martial ardor, and they are wrought up to a kind of 
religious desperation by the visions of the prophet 
and the dreamer.' 

An instance of one of those sudden exaspera- 
tions, arising from a motive peculiar to the Indian 
character, is extant in an old record of the early 
settlement of Massachusetts. The planters of Plym- 
outh had defaced the monuments of the dead at 
Passonagessit, and had plundered the grave of the 
Sachem's mother of some skins with which it had 
been decorated. The Indians are remarkable for 
the reverence which they entertain for the sepulchres 
of their kindred. Tribes that have passed genera- 
tions exiled from the abodes of their ancestors, 
when by chance they have been travelling in the 
vicinity, have been known to turn aside from the 
highway, and, guided by wonderfully accurate 
tradition, have crossed the country for miles tc 
some tumulus, buried perhaps in woods, \vhere the 
bones of their tribe were anciently deposited, and 
there have passed hours in silent meditation. In- 
fluenced by this sublime and holy feeUng, the 



348 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

Sachem whose mother's tomb had been violated 
gathered his men together, and addressed them 
in the following beraitifully simple and pathetic 
harangue — a curious specimen of Indian eloquence 
and an affecting instance of filial piety in a 
savage : 

" When last the glorious light of all the sky was 
underneath this globe and birds grew silent, I 
began to settle, as my custom is, to take repose. 
Before mine eyes were fast closed methought 1 saw 
a vision, at which my spirit was much troubled ; 
and trembling at that doleful si^^ht, a spirit' cried 
aloud, ' Behold, my so!i, whom I have cherished, 
see the breasts that gave thee suck, the hands that 
lapped thee warm and fed thee oft. Canst thou 
forget to tak^ revenge of those wild people who 
have defaced my monument in a despiteful manner, 
disdaining our antiquities and honorable customs ? 
See, now, the Sachem's grave lies like the common 
people, defaced by an ignoble race. Thy mother 
doth complam and implores thy aid against this 
thievish people who have newly intruded on 
our land. If this be suffered, I shall not rest quiet 
in my everlasting habitation,' This said, the spirit 
vanished, and I, all in a sweat, not able scarce to 
speak, began to get some strength and recollect 
my spirits that were fied, and determined to demand 
your counsel and assistance." 

I have adduced this anecdote at some length, as 
it tends to show how these sudden acts of hostility, 
which have been attributed to caprice and perfidy, 
may often arise from deep and generous motives, 
which our inattention to Indian character and 
•customs prevents our properly appreciating. 



TRAITS OF INDIA lY CHARACTER. 349 

Another ground of violent outcry against the 
Indians is their barbarity to the vanquished. This 
had its origin partly in policy and partly in supersti- 
tion. The tribes, though sometimes called nations, 
were never so formidable in their numbers but that 
the loss of several warriors was sensibly felt ; this 
was particularly the case when they had been 
frequently engaged in warfare; and many an in- 
stance occurs in Indian history wtiere "a tribe that 
had long been formidable to its neighbors has been 
broken up and driven away by the capture and 
massacre of its principal fighting-men. There was 
a strong temptation, therefore, to the victor to be 
merciless, not so Inuch to gratify any cruel revenge, 
as to provide for future security. The Indians 
had also the superstitious belief, frequent among 
barbarous nations and prevalent also among the 
ancients, that the manes of their friends who had 
fallen in battle were soothed by the blood of the 
captives. The prisoners, however, who are not 
thus sacrificed are adopted into their families in 
the place of the slain, and are treated with the con- 
fidence and affection of relatives and friends ; nay, 
so hospitable and tender is their entertainment that 
when the alternative is offered them they will often 
prefer to remain with their adopted brethren rather 
than return to the home and the friends of their 
youth. 

The cruelty of the Indians towards their prisoners 
has been heightened since the colonization of the 
whites. What was formerly a compliance with 
policy and superstition has been exasperated into 
a gratification of vengeance. They cannot but be 
sensible that the white men are the usurpers of 



35° 



THE SKETCir.BOOK. 



their ancient dominion, the cause of their degrada 
tion, and the gradual destroyers of their race 
They go forth to battle smarting with injuries and 
indignities which they have individually suffered^ 
and they are driven to madness and despair by the; 
wide-spreading desolation and the overwhelming 
ruin of European warfare. The whites have too fre- 
quently set them an example of violence by burn- 
ing their villages and laying waste their slender 
means of subsistence, and yet they wonder that 
savages do not show moderation and magnanimity 
towards those who have left them nothing but mere 
existence and wretchedness. 

We stigmatize the Indians, also, as cowardly and 
treacherous, because they use stratagem in warfare 
in preference to open force ; but in this they are 
fully justified by their rude code of honor. They 
are early taught that stratagem is praiseworthy ; the 
bravest warrior thinks it no disgrace to lurk in 
silence, and take every advantage of his foe : he 
triumphs in the superior craft and s:igacity by 
which he has been enabled to surprise and destroy 
an enemy. Indeed, man is naturally more prone 
to subtilty than open valor, owing to his physical 
weakness in comparison with other animals. They 
are endowed with natural w'eapons of defence, with 
horns, with tusks, with hoofs, and talons ; but man 
has to depend on his superior sagacity. In all his 
encounters with these, his proper enemies, he 
resorts to. stratagem ; and when he perversely turns 
his hostility against his fellow-man, he at first con- 
tinues the same subtle mode of warfare. 

The natural principle of war is to do the most 
harm to our enemy with the least harm to our- 



TRAITS OF INDIA N CHA RA C TER. 3 5 1 

selves ; and this of course is to be effecttd by 
stratagem. That chivah'ous courage which induces 
us to despise the suggestions of prudence and to 
rush in the face of certain danger is the offspring 
of society and produced by education. It is hon- 
orable, because it is in fact the triumph of k f ly 
sentiment over an instinctive repugnance to pain, 
and over those yearnings after personal ease and 
security which society has condemned as ignoble. 
It is kept alive by pride and the fear of shame ; 
and thus the dread of real evil is overcome by the 
superior dread of an evil which exists but in the 
imagination. It has been cherished and stimulated 
also" by various means. It has been the theme of 
spirit-stirring song and chivalrous story. The poet 
and minstrel have delighted to shed round it the 
splendors of fiction, and even the historian has for- 
gotten the sober gravity of narration and broken 
forth into enthusiasm and rhapsody in its praise. 
Triumphs and gorgeous pageants have been its re- 
ward : monuments, on wdiich art has exhausted its 
skill and opulence its treasures, have been erected 
to perpetuate a nation's gratitude and admiration. 
Thus artificially excited, courage has risen to an 
extraordinary and factitious degree of heroism, and, 
arrayed in all the glorious " pomp and circumstance 
of w^ar," this turbulent quality has even been able 
to eclipse many of those quiet but invaluable vir- 
tues which silently ennoble the human character 
and swell the tide of human happiness. 

But if courage intrinsically consists in the defi- 
iince of danger'and pain, the life of the Indian is a 
continual exhibition of it. He lives in a state of 
perpetual hostility and risk. Peril and adventure 



352 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 



are congenial to his nature, or rather seem neces- 
sary to arouse his faculties and to give an interest 
to his existence. Surrounded by hostile tribes, 
whose mode of warfare is by ambush and surprisal, 
he is always prepared for fight and lives with his 
weapons in liis hands. As the ship careers in fear- 
ful singleness through the solitudes of ocean, as the 
bird mingles among clouds and storms, and wings 
its way, a mere speck, across the pathless fields of 
air, so the Indian holds his course, silent, solitary, 
but undaunted, through the boundless bosom of the 
wilderness. His expeditions may vie in distance 
and danger with the pilgrimage of the devotee or 
the crusade of the knight-errant. He traverses 
vast forests exposed to the hazards of lonely sick- 
ness, of lurking enemies, and i)ining famine. Stormy 
lakes, those great inland seas, are no obstacles to 
his wanderings : in his light canoe of bark he sports 
like a feather on their waves, and darts with the 
swiftness of an arrow down the roaring rapids of 
the rivers. His very subsistence is snatched from 
the midst of toil and peril. He gains his food by 
the hardships and dangers of the chase : he wraps 
himself in the spoils of the bear, the panther, and 
the buffalo, and sleeps among the thunders of the 
cataract. 

No hero of ancient or modern days can surpass 
the Indian in his lofty contempt of death and the 
fortitude with which he sustains his crudest afflic- 
tion. Indeed, we here behold him rising superior 
to the white man in consequence of his peculiar 
education. The latter rushes to glorious death at 
the cannon's mouth ; the former calmly contem- 
plates its approach, and triumphantly endures it 



TR.ins CF i::djax ci:ai:acter. 353 

amidst the varied torments of surrounding foes and 
the protracted agonies of fu-e. He even takes a 
pride in taunting his persecutors and provokhig 
their ingenuity of torture ; and as the devouring 
flames prey oti his verv vitals and the flesh shrinks 
from tiie smews, he raises his hist song of triumph, 
breathing the defiance of an unconquered heart and 
invoking the spirits of his fathers to witness that 
he dies without a groan. 

Notwithstanding the obloquy with wliicli the 
early historians have overshadowed the characters, 
of the unfortunate natives, some bright gleams 
occasi'onally break through which throw a degree 
of melancholy lustre on their memories. Facts are 
occasionally to be met with in the rude annals of 
the eastern provinces which, though recorded with 
the coloring of prejudice and Ijigotry, yet speak 
for themselves, and wall be dwelt on with applause 
and sympathy w^hen prejudice shall have passed 
away. 

In one of the homely narratives of the Indian 
wars in New England there is a touching account 
of the desolation carried into the tribe of the 
Pequod Indians. Humanity shrinks from the 
cold-blooded detail of indiscriminate butchery. In 
one place we read of the surprisal of an Indian 
fort in the night, when the wigwams were wrapped 
in tiames and the miserable inhabitants shot down 
and slain in attempting to escape, ." ail being de- 
spatched and ended in the course of an hour." 
After a series of similar transactions ''our soldiers," 
as the historian piously observes, " being resolved 
by God's assistance to make a final destruction of 
them," the unhappy savages being 'hunted from 

23 



354 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 



their homes and fortresses and pursued with fire 
and sword, a scanty but gallant band, the sad rem- 
nant of the Pequod warriors, with their wives and 
children took refuge in a swamp. 

Burning with indignation and rendered sullen by 
despair, with hearts bursting with grief at the de- 
struction of their tribe, and spirits galled and sore 
at the fancied ignominy of their defeat, they refused 
to ask thiir lives at the hands of an insulting foe, 
and preferred death to submission. 

As the night drew on they were surrounded in 
their dismal retreat, so as to render escape im- 
practicable. Thus situated, their enemy " plied 
them with shot all the time, by which means many 
were killed and buried in the mire." In the dark- 
ness and fog that preceded the dawn of day some 
few broke through the besiegers and escaped into 
the woods ; " the rest were left to the conquerors, 
of which many were killed in the swamp, like sullen 
dogs who would rather, in their self-willedness and 
madness, sit still and be shot through or cut to 
pieces " than implore for mercy. When the day 
broke upon this handful of forlorn but dauntless 
spirits, the soldiers, we are told, entering the 
swamp, " saw several heaps of them sitting close 
together, upon whom they discharged their pieces, 
laden with ten or twelve pistol bullets at a time, 
putting the muzzles of the pieces under the boughs, 
within a few yards of them ; so as, besides those 
that were found dead, many more were killed and 
sunk into the mire, and never were minded more 
by friend or foe." 

Can any one read this plain unvarnished talc 
without adm'iring the stern resolution, the unbend- 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 



355 



ing pride, the loftiness of spirit that seemed to 
nerve the hearts of these self-taught heroes and to 
raise them above the instinctive feelings of human 
nature ? When the Gauls laid waste the city of 
Rome, they found the senators clothed in their 
robes and seated with stern tranquillity in their 
curule chairs ; in this manner they suffered death 
without resistance or even supplication. Such 
conduct was in them applauded as noble and mag- 
nanimous ; in the hapless Indian it was reviled as 
obstinate and sullen. How truly are we the dupes 
of show and circumstance ! How different is vir- 
tue clothed in purple and enthroned in state, from 
virtue naked and destitute and perishing obscurely 
in a wilderness ! 

But I forbear to dwell on these gloomy pictures. 
The eastern tribes have long since disappeared ,; 
the forests that sheltered them have been laid low, 
and scarce any traces remain of them in the thickly- 
settled States of New England, excepting here and 
there the Indian name of a village or a stream. 
And such must, sooner or later, be the fate of those 
other tribes which skirt the frontiers, and have 
occasionally been inveigled from their forests to 
mingle in the wars of white men. In a little while, 
and they will go the way that their brethren have 
gone before. The few hordes which still linger 
about the shores of Huron and Superior and the 
tributary streams of the Mississippi will share the 
fate of those tribes that once spread over Massa- 
chusetts and Connecticut and lorded it along the 
proud banks of the Hudson, of that gigantic race 
said to have existed on the borders of the Susque- 
hanna, and of those various nations that flourished 



356 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

about the Potomac and the Rappahannock and 
that peopled the forests of the vast valley of Shen- 
andoah. They will vanish like a vapor from the 
face of the earth ; their very history will be lost in 
forgetfulness ; and " the places that now know 
them will know them no more forever." Or if, 
perchance, some dubious memorial of them should 
survive, it may be in the romantic dreams of the 
poet, to people in imagination his glades and 
groves, like the fauns and satyrs and sylvan deities 
of antiquity. But should he venture upon the dark 
story of their wrongs and wretchedness, should he 
tell how they were invaded, corrupted, despoiled, 
driven from their native abodes and the sepulchres 
of their fathers, hunted like wild beasts about the 
earth, and sent down with violence and butchery to 
the grave, posterity will either turn with horror and 
incredulity from the tale or blush with indignation 
at the inhumanity of their forefathers. " We are 
driven back," said an old warrior, " until we can 
retreat no farther — our hatchets are broken, our 
bows are snapped, our fires are nearly extinguished; 
a little longer and the white man will cease to per- 
secute us, for we shall cease to exist ! " 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 



357 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 

AN INDIAN MEMOIR. 

As monumental bronze unchanged his look : 
A soul that pity touch'd, but never shook; 
TrairiM from his tree-rock' d cradle to his bier, 
The fierce extremes of good and ill to brook 
Impassive — fearing but the shame of fear — 
A stoic of the woods — a man without a tear. 

Campbell. 

It is to be regretted that those early writers who 
reated of the discovery and settlement of America 
lave not given us more particular and candid ac- 
lounts of the remarkable characters that flourished 
n savage life. The scanty anecdotes which have 
cached us are full of peculiarity and interest ; 
hey furnish us with nearer glimpses of human 
lature, and show what man is in a comparatively 
)rimitive state and what he owes to civilization, 
rhere is something of the charm of discovery in 
ighting upon these wild and unexplored tracts of 
luman nature — in witnessing, as it were, the native 
Towth of moral sentiment, and perceiving those 
;enerous and romantic qualities which have been 
.rtiiicially cultivated by society vegetating in spon- 
aneous hardihood and rude magnificence. 

In civilized life, where the happiness, and in- 
le*id almost the existence, of man depends so much 
ipon the opinion of his fellow-men, he is constantly 



358 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

acting a studied part. The bold and peculiar traits 

of native character are refined away or softened 
down by the levelling influence of what is termed 
good-breeding, and he practises so many petty 
deceptions and affects so many generous senti- 
ments for the purposes of popularity that it is 
difficult to distinguish his real from his artificial 
character. The Indian, on the contrary, free from 
the restraints and refinements of polished life, and 
in a great degree a solitary and independent being, 
obeys the impulses of his inclination or the dic- 
tates of his judgment ; and thus the attributes of 
his nature, being freely indulged, grow singly great 
and striking. Society is like a lawn, where every 
roughness is smoothed, every bramble eradicated, 
and where the eye is delighted by the smiling ver- 
dure of a velvet surface ; he, however, who would 
study Nature in its wildness and variety must 
plunge into the forest, must explore the glen, must 
stem the torrent, and dare the precipice. 

These reflections arose on casually looking 
through a volume of early colonial history wherein 
are recorded, with great bitterness, the outrages of 
the Indians and their wars with the settlers of New 
England. It is painful to perceive, even from 
these partial narratives, how the footsteps of civili- 
zation may be traced in the blood of the aborigi- 
nes ; how easily the colonists were moved to hos- 
tility by the lust of conquest ; how merciless and 
exterminating was their warfare. The imagination 
shrinks at the idea of how many intellectual beings 
were hunted from the earth, how many brave and 
noble hearts, of Nature's sterling coinage, were 
broken down and trampled in the dust. 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 359 

Such was the fate of Philip of Pokanoket, an In- 
dian warrior whose name was once a terror through- 
out Massachusetts and Connecticut, He was the 
most distinguished of a number of contemporary 
sachems who reigned over the Pequods, the Nar- 
ragansetts, the Wampanoags, and the other eastern 
tribes at the time of the first settlement of New 
England — a band of native untaught heroes who 
made the most generous struggle of which human 
nature is capable, fighting to the last gasp in the 
cause of their country, without a hope of victory 
or a thought of renown. Worthy of an age of 
poetry and fit subjects for local story and romantic 
fiction, they have left scarcely any authentic traces 
on the page of history, but stalk like gigantic 
shadows in the dim twilight of tradition.* 

When the Pilgrims, as the Plymouth settlers are 
called by their descendants, first took refuge on 
the shores of the New- World from the religious 
persecutions of the Old, their situation was to the 
last degree gloomy and disheartening. Few in 
number, and that number rapidly perishing away 
through sickness and hardships, surrounded by a 
how^ling wilderness and savage tribes, exposed to 
the rigors of an almost arctic winter and the vicis- 
situdes of an ever-shifting climate, their minds wer^ 
filled with doleful forebodings, and nothing pr^ 
served them from sinking into despondency but the 
sirong excitement of religious enthusiasm. In this 
forlorn situation they \vere visited by Massasoit, 
chief sagamore of the Wampanoags, a powerful chief 

* While correcting the proof-sheets of this article the 
author is informed that a celebrated English poet has nearly 
finished an heroic poem on the story of Philin - ' Poi'anok'=^*i» 



360 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

who reigned over a great extent of country. Instead 
of taking advantage of the scanty number of the 
strangers and expelling them from his territories, 
into which they had intruded, he seemed at once 
to conceive for them a generqus friendship, and 
extended towards them the rites of primitive hos- 
pitality. He came early in the spring to their set- 
tlement of New Plymouth, attended by a mere 
handful of followers, entered into a solemn league 
of peace and amity, sold them a portion of the soil, 
and promised to secure for them the good-will of 
his savage allies. Whatever may be said of In- 
dian perfidy, it is certain that the integrity and 
good faith of Massasoit have never been impeached. 
He continued a firm and magnanimous friend of 
the white men, suffering them to extend their pos- 
sessions and to strengthen themselves in the land, 
and betraying no jealousy of their increasing power 
and prosperity. Shortly before his death he came 
once more to New Plymouth with his son Alexan- 
der, for the purpose of renewing the covenant of 
peace and of securing it to his posterity. 

At this conference he endeavored to protect the 
religion of his forefathers from the encroaching 
zeal of the missionaries, and stipulated that no fur- 
ther attempt should be made to draw off his people 
from their ancient faith ; but, finding the English 
obstinately opposed to any such condition, he mildly 
relinquished the demand. Almost the last act of 
his life was to bring his two sons, Alexander and 
Philip (as they had been named by the English), to 
the residence of a principal settler, recommending 
mutual kindness and confidence, and entreating 
that the same love and amity which had existed 



PHILIP OF FOKANOKET. 361 

between the white men and himself might be con- 
tinued afterwards with his children. The good old 
sachem died in peace, and was happily gathered to 
his fathers before sorrow came upon his tribe ; his 
children remained behind to experience the ingrati- 
tude of white men. 

His eldest son, Alexander, succeeded him. He 
was of a quick and impetuous temper, and proudly 
tenacious of his hereditary rights and dignity. The 
intrusive policy and dictatorial conduct of the 
strangers excited his indignation, and he beheld 
with uneasiness their exterminating wars with the 
neighboring tribes. He was doomed soon to incur 
their hostility, being accused of plotting with the 
Narragansetts to' rise against the English and drive 
them from the land. It is impossible to say 
whether this accusation was warranted by facts or 
was grounded on mere suspicions. It is evident, 
however, by the violent and overbearing measures 
of the settlers that they had by this time begun to 
feel conscious of the rapid increase of their power^ 
and to grow harsh and inconsiderate in their treat- 
ment of the natives. They despatched an armed 
force to seize upon Alexander and to bring him be- 
fore their courts. He was traced to his woodland 
haunts, and surprised at a hunting-house where he 
was reposing with a band of his followers, unarmed, 
after the toils of the chase. The suddenness of 
his arrest and the outrage offered to his sovereign 
dignit) so preyed upon the irascible feelings of this 
proud savage as to throw him into a raging fever. 
He was permitted to return home on condition of 
sending his son as a pledge for his re-appearance ; 
but the blow he had received was fatal, and before 



362 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

he reached his home he fell a victim to the agonies 
of a wounded spirit. 

The successor of Alexander was Metamocet, or 
King Philip, as he was called by the settlers on 
account of his lofty spirit and ambitious temper. 
These, together with his well-known energy and 
enterprise, had rendered him an object of great 
jealousy and apprehension, and he was accused of 
having always cherished a secret and implacable 
hostility towards the whites. Such may very prob- 
ably and very naturally have been the case. He 
considered them as originally but mere intruders 
into the country, who had presumed upon indul- 
gence and were extending an influence bane- 
ful to savage life. He saw the whole race of his 
countrymen melting before them from the face 
of the earth, their territories slipping from their 
hands, and their tribes becoming feeble, scattered, 
and dependent. It may be said that the soil was 
originally purchased by the settlers ; but who does 
not know the nature of Indian purchases in the 
early periods of colonization 1 The Europeans 
always made thrifty bargains through their superior 
adroitness in traffic, and they gained vast accessions 
of territory by easily-provoked hostilities. An un- 
cultivated savage is never a nice inquirer into the 
relinements of law by which an injury maybe grad- 
ually and legally inflicted. Leading facts are all 
by which he judges ; and it was enough for Philip 
to know that before the intrusion of the Europeans 
his countrymen were lords of the soil, and that 
now they were becoming vagabonds in the land of 
their fathers. 

But whatever may have been his feelings of gen- 



PHIL IP OF PO KA .\ 'OKE T. 3 63 

eral hostility and his particular indignation at the 
treatment of his brother, he suppressed them for 
the present, renewed the contract with the set- 
tlers, and resided peaceably for many years at 
Pokanoket, or as, it was called by the English, 
Mount Hope,"* the ancient seat of dominion of his 
tribe. Suspicions, however, which were at first but 
vague and indefinite, began to acquire form and 
substance, and he was at length charged with at- 
tempting to instigate the various eastern tribes to 
rise at once, and by a simultaneous effort to throw 
off the yoke of their oppressors. It is difficult at 
this distant period to assign the proper credit 
due to these early accusations against the Indians, 
There wms a proneness to suspicion and an aptness 
to acts of violence on the part of the whites that 
gave weight and importance to every idle tale. In- 
formers abounded where tale-bearing met with 
countenance and reward, and the sword was readily 
unsheathed when its success was certain and it 
carved out empire. 

I'he only positive evidence on record against 
Philip is the accusation of one Sausaman, a rene- 
gado Indian, whose natural cunning had been 
quickened by a partial education which he had 
received among the settlers. He changed his faith 
and his allegiance two or three times with a facility 
that evinced the looseness of his principles. He 
had acted for some time as Philip's confidential 
secretary aixl counsellor, and had enjoyed his 
bounty and protection. Finding, however, that the 
'Uouds of adversity were gathering round his patron, 

* Now Bristol, Rhode Island. 



2, J 4- THE SKETCn-BOOK. 

he abandoned his service and went over to the 
whites, and in order to gain their favor charged 
his former benefactor with plotting against their 
safety. A rigorous investigation took place. Philip 
and several of his subjects submitted to be exam- 
ined, but nothing was proved against them. The 
settlers, however, had now gone too far to retract ; 
they had previously determined that Philip was a 
dangerous neighbor ; they had publicly evinced 
their distrust, and had done enou^^'h to insure his 
hostility ; according, therefore, to the usual mode 
of reasoning in these cases, his destruction had 
become necessary to their security. Sausaman, 
the treacherous informer, was shortly afterwards 
found dead in a pond, having fallen a victim to the 
vensreance of his tribe. Three Indians, one of 
whom was a friend and counsellor of Philip, were 
apprehended and tried, and on the testimony of 
one very questionable witness were condemned and 
executed as murderers. 

This treatment of his subjects and ignominious 
punishment of his friend outraged the pride and 
exasperated the passions of Philip. The bolt 
which had fallen thus at his very feet awakened 
him to the gathering storm, and he determined to 
trust himself no longer in the power of the white 
men. The fate of his insulted and broken-hearted 
brother still rankled in his mind ; and he had a 
further warning in the tragical story of Miantonimo, 
a great Sachem of the Narragansetts, who, after 
manfully facing his accusers before a tribunal of 
the colonists, exculpating himself from a charge of 
conspiracy and receiving assurances of amity, had 
been perfidiously despatched at their instigation. 



PHIL IP OF POKA NOKE T. 365 

Philip therefore gathered his fighting-men about 
him, persuaded all strangers that he could to 
join his cause, sent the women and children 
to the Narragansetts for safety, and wherever he 
appeared was continually surrounded by armed 
warriors. 

When the two parties were thus in a state of 
distrust and irritation, the least spark was sufficient 
to set them in a flame. The Indians, having 
weapons in their hands, grew mischievous and 
committed various petty depredations. In one of 
their maraudings a warrior was fired, on and killed 
by a settler. This was the signal 'for open hos- 
tilities ; the Indians pressed to revenge the death 
of theii comrade, and the alarm of war resounded 
through the Plymouth colony. 

In the early chronicles of these dark and melan- 
choly times we meet with many indications of the 
diseased state of the public mind. The gloom of 
religious abstraction and the wildness of their 
situation among trackless forests and savage tribes 
had disposed the colonists to superstitious fancies, 
and had filled their imaginations with the frightful 
chimeras of witchcraft and spectrology. They 
were much given also to a belief in omens. The 
troubles with Philip and his Indians were preceded, 
we are told, by a varietv of tho^e awful '.varnincs 
which forerun 8;reat ana pr^blx calamities. 1 Hf 
;5e.ffccr rorm of an Indian bow appeared in the aii 
dt New Plymouth, which was looked upon by the 
inhabitants as a "prodigious apparition." At 
Hadley, Northampton, and other towns in their 
'^f^^c'-^>b>rhood "was heard the report of a great 
^xeceof ordnance, with a shaking of the earth and a 



366 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

considerable echo." * Others were alarmed on a 
still sunshiny morning by the discharge of guns 
and muskets; bullets seemed to whistle past them, 
and the noise of drums resounded in the air, 
seeming to pass away to the westward ; others 
fancied that they heard the galloping of horses 
over their heads ; and certain monstrous births 
which took place about the time filled the super- 
stitious in some towns with doleful forebodings. 
Many of these portentous sights and sounds may 
be ascribed to natural phenomena — to the northern 
li":hts which occur vividly in those latitudes, the 
meteors which explode in the air, the casual rushing 
of a blast through the top branches of the forest, 
the crash of fallen trees or disrupted rocks, and to 
those other uncouth sounds and echoes which will 
sometimes strike the ear so strangely amidst the 
profound stillness of woodland solitudes. These 
may have startled some melancholy imaginations, 
may have been exaggerated by the love for the 
marvellous, and listened to with that avidity with 
which we devour whatever is fearful and mysterious. 
The universal currency of these superstitious 
fancies and the grave record made of them by one 
of the learned men of the day are strongly charac- 
teristic of the times. 

The nature of the contest that ensued was such 
as too often distinguishes the warfare between 
civilized men and savages. On the part of the 
whites it was conducted with superior skill and 
success, but with a wastefulness of the blood and 
a disregard of the natural rights of their antag^ 

* The Rev. Increase Mather's History. 



PHILIP OF POKA NOKE T. 367 

onists : on the part of the Indians it was waged 
with the desperation of men fearless of death, and 
who had nothing to expect from peace but humil- 
iation, dependence, and decay. 

The events of the war are transmitted to us by 
a worthy clergyman of the time, who dwells with 
horror and indignation on every hostile act of the 
Indians, however justifiable, whilst he mentions 
with applause the most sanguinary atrocities of the 
whites. Philip is reviled as a murderer and a 
traitor, without considering that he was a true-born 
prince gallantly lighting at the head of his subjects 
to avenge the wrongs of his family, to retrieve the 
tottering power of his line, and to deliver his native 
land from the oppression of usurping strangers. 

The project of a wide and simultaneous revolt, 
if such had really been formed, was worthy of a 
capacious mind, and had it not been prematurely 
discovered might have been overwhelming in its 
consequences. The war that actually broke out was 
but a war of detail, a mere succession of casual 
exploits and unconnected enterprises. Still, it sets 
forth the military genius and daring prowess of 
Philip, and wherever, in the prejudiced and pas- 
sionate narrations that have been given of it, we 
can arrive at simple facts, we find him displaying a 
vigorous mind, a fertility of expedients, a contempt 
of suffering and hardship, and an unconquerable 
resolution that command our sympathy and ap- 
plause. 

Driven from his paternal domains at Mount 
Hope, he threw himself into the depths of those 
Vast and trackless forests that skirted the settle- 
ments and were almost impervious to anything but 



36«S THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

a wild beast or an Indian. Here he gathered 
together his forces, like the storm accumulating its 
stores of mischief in the bosom of the thunder- 
cloud, and would suddenly emerge at a time and 
place least expected, carrying havoc and dismay 
into the villages. There were now and then indi- 
cations of these impending ravages that filled the 
minds of the colonists with awe and apprehension. 
The report of a distant gun would perhaps be 
heard from the solitary woodland, where there was 
known to be no white man ; the cattle which had 
been wanderins: in the woods would sometimes 
return home wounded ; or an Indian or two would 
be seen lurking about the skirts of the forests and 
suddenly disappearing, as the lightning will some- 
times be seen playing silently about the edge of the 
cloud that is brewing up the tempest. 

Though sometimes pursued and even surrounded 
by the settlers, yet Philip as often escaped almost 
miraculously from their toils, and, plunging into the 
wilderness, would be lost to all search or inquiry 
until he again emerged at some far distant quarter, 
laying the country desolate. Among his strong- 
holds were the great swamps or morasses which 
extend in some parts of New England, composed of 
loose bogs of deep black mud, perplexed with 
thickets, brambles, rank weeds, the shattered and 
mouldering trunks of fallen trees, overshadowed by 
lugubrious hemlocks. The uncertain footing and 
the tangled mazes of these shaggy wilds rendered 
them almost impracticable to the white man, though 
the Indian could thread their labyrinths with the 
agility of a deer. Into one of these, the great 
swamp of Pocasset Nee!--, was Philip once driven 



PHIL IP OF POKA NOKE T. 369 

with a band of his followers. The English did not 
dare to pursue him, fearin/^ to venture into these 
dark and frightful recesses, where they might 
perish in fens and miry pits or be shot down by 
lurking foes. They therefore invested the entrance 
to the Neck, and began to build a fort with the 
thought of starving out the foe ; but Philip and his 
warriors wafied themselves on a raft over an arm 
of the sea in the dead of night, leaving the women 
and children behind, and escaped away to the west- 
ward, kindling the flames of war among the tribes 
of Massachusetts and the Nipmuck country and 
threatening the colony of Connecticut. 

In this way Philip became a theme of universal 
apprehension. The mystery in which he was en- 
veloped exaggerated his real terrors. He was an 
evil that walked in darkness, whose coming none 
could foresee and against which none knew when 
to be on the alert. The whole country abounded 
with rumors and alarms. Philip seemed almost 
possessed of ubiquity, for in whatever part of the 
widely-extended frontier an irruption from the 
forest took place, Philip was said to be its leader. 
Many superstitious notions also were circulated 
concerning him. He was said to deal in necro- 
mancy, and to be attended by an old Indian witch 
or prophetess, whom he consulted and who assisted 
him by her charms and incantations. This, indeed, 
was frequently the case with Indian chiefs, either 
through their own credulity or to act upon that of 
their followers ; and the influence of the prophet 
and the dreamer over Indian superstition has been 
fully evidenced in recent instances of savage war- 
fare. 
24 



370 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 



At the time that Philip effected his escape from 
Pocasset his fortunes were in a desperate condition. 
His forces had been thinned by repeated tights aaid 
he had lost almost the whole of his resources. In 
this time of adversity he found a faithful friend in 
Canonchet. chief Sachem of all the Xarragansetts. 
He was the son and heir of Miantonimo, the great 
sachem who, as already mentioned, after an honor- 
able acquittal of the charge of conspiracy, had 
been privately put to death at the perfidious insti- 
oations of the settlers. '' He was the heir.'' says 
the old chronicler, " of all his father's pride and 
insolence, as well as of his malice towards the Ens:- 
lish ; '* he certainlv was the heir of his insults and 
injuries and the legitimate avenger of his murder. 
Though he had forborne to take an active part in 
this hopeless war, yet he received Philip and his 
broken forces with open arms and gave them the 
most generous countenance and support. 1 his at 
once drew upon him the hostility of the English, 
and it was determined to strike a signal blow that 
should involve both the Sachems in one common 
ruin. A great force was therefore gathered to- 
gether from Massachusetts, Plymouth, and Connect- 
icut, and was sent into the Narragansett country in 
the depth of winter, when the swamps, being frozen 
and leafless, could be traversed with comparative 
facility and would no longer afford dark and im- 
penetrable fastnesses to the Indians. 

Apprehensive of attack. Canonchet had conveyed 
the greater part of his stores, together with the old, 
the infirm, the women and children of his tribe, to 
a strong fortress, where he and Philip had likewise 
drawn up the flower of their forces. This fortress. 



PHILIP OF POKA XOKE T. 371 

aeemed by the Indians impregnable, was situated 
Mpon a rising mound or kind of island of five or six 
acres in the midst of a swamp ; it was constructed 
n'ith a degree of judgment and skill vastly superior 
^o what is usually displayed in Indian fortification, 
and indicative of the martial genius of these two 
chieftains. 

Guided by a renegado Indian, the English pen- 
etrated, through December snows, to this strong- 
hold and came upon the garrison by surprise. The 
light was fierce and tumultuous. The assailants 
were repulsed in their first attack, and several of their 
bravest officers were shot down in the act of storm- 
ins: the fortress, sword in hand. The assault was 
renevv'ed with greater success. A lodgment was 
effected. The Indians were driven from one post 
to another. They disputed their ground inch by 
mch, fighting with the fury of despair. Most of 
their veterans were cut to pieces, and after a long 
and bloody battle, Philip and Canonchet, with a 
handful of surviving warriors, retreated from the 
fort and took refuge in the thickets of the surround- 
ing forest. 

The victors set fire to the wigwams and the fort ; 
the whole was soon in a blaze : many of the old 
men, the women, and the children perished in the 
flames. This last outrage overcame even the stoi- 
cism of the savage. The neighboring woods re- 
sounded with the yells of rage and despair uttered 
by the fugitive warriors, as they beheld the de- 
struction of their dwellings and heard the agonizing 
cries of their wives and offspring. " The burning 
of the wigwams," says a contemporary writer, "the 
shrieks and cries of the women and children, and 



372 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 



the yelling of the warriors, exhibited a most hor- 
rible and affecting scene, so that it greatly moved 
some of the soldiers." The same writer cautiously 
adds, " They were in ninch doubt then, and after- 
wards seriously inquired, whether burning their en- 
emies alive could be consistent with humanity, and 
the benevolent principles of the gospel." * 

The fate of the brave and generous Canonchet 
is worthy of particular mention : the last scene of 
his life is one of the noblest instances on record of 
Indi;'n magnimity. 

Broken down in his power and resources by this 
sign.ll defeat, yet faithful to his ally and to the hap- 
less -:ause which he had espoused, he rejected all 
over'^.ures of peace offered on condition of betray- 
ing Philip and his followers, and declared that 
" h( would fight it out to the last man. rather than 
became a servan'j to the English." His home 
being destroyed, his country harassed and laid 
waste by the incursions of the conquerors, he was 
obl-ged to wander away to the banks of the Con- 
necticut, where he formed a rallying-point to the 
whole body of western Indians and laid waste sev- 
eral of the English settlements. 

Eirly in the spring he departed on a hazardous ex- 
pedition, with only thirty chosen men, to penetrate 
to Seaconck, in the vicinity of Mount Hope, and 
to procure seed corn to plant for the sustenance of 
hi::: troops. This little band of adventurers had 
passed safely through the Pequod country, and 
were in the centre of the Narragansett, resting at 
«ome wigwams near Pautucket River, when an 



"& 



* MS. of the Rev. W. Ruggles. 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 373 

alarm was given of an approaching enem}'. Hav- 
ing but seven men by him at the time, Canonchet 
despatched two of them to the top of a neighbor- 
ing hill to bring intelligence of the foe. 

Panic-struck by the appearance of a troop of 
English and Indians rapidly advancing, they fled 
in breathless terror past their chieftain, without 
stopping to inform him of the danger. Canonchet 
sent another scout, who did the same. He then 
sent two more, one of whom, hurrying back in con- 
fusion and affright, told him that the whole British 
army was at hand. Canonchet saw there was no 
choice but immediate flight. He attempted to es- 
cape round the Mil, but was perceived and hotly 
pursued by the hostile Indians and a few of the 
fleetest of the English. Finding the swiftest pursuer 
close upon his heels, he threw off, first his blanket^ 
then his silver-laced coat and belt of peag, by which 
his enemies knew him to be Canonchet and re- 
doubled the eagerness of pursuit. 

At length, in dashing through the river, his foot 
slipped upon a stone, and he fell so deep as to wet 
his gun. This accident so struck him with despair 
that, as he afterwards confessed, '" his heart and 
his bowels turned within him, and he became like 
a rotten stick, void of strength." 

To such a degree was he unnerved that, being 
seized by a Pequod Indian within a short distance 
of the river, he made no resistance, though a man 
of great vigor of body and boldness of heart. But 
on being made prisoner the whole pride of his 
spirit arose within him, and from that moment we 
find, in the anecdotes given b}^ his enemies, nothing 
but repeated flashes of elevated and prince-like 



374 . THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

heroism. Being questioned by one of the English 
who first came up with him, and who had not at- 
tained his twenty second year, tlie proud-hearted 
warrior, looking with lofty contempt upon hi/ 
youthful countenance, replied, " You are a child — - 
you cannot understand matters of war ; let your 
brother or your chief come : him will I answer." 

Though repeated offers were made to him of his 
life on condition of submitting with his nation to 
the English, yet he rejected them with disdain, and 
refused to send any proposals of the kind to the 
great body of his subjects, saying that he knew 
none of them would comply. Being reproached 
with his breach of faith towards the whites, his boast 
that he would not deliver up a Wampanoag nor the 
paring of a Wampanoag's nail, and his threat that 
he would burn the English alive in their houses, he 
disdained to justify himself, haughtily answering 
that others were as forv^ard for the war as himself, 
and " he desired to hear no more thereof." 

So noble and unshaken a spirit, so true a fidel- 
ity to his cause and his friencl, might have touched 
the feelings of the generous and the brave ; but 
Canonchet was an Indian, a being towards whom 
war had no courtesy, humanity no law, religion no 
compassion : he was condemned to die. The last 
words of his that are recorded are worthy the great- 
ness of his soul. When sentence of death was 
passed upon him, he observed " that he liked it 
well, for lie should die before his heart was soft or 
he had spoken anything unworthy of himself." 
His enemies gave him ths death of a soldier, for he 
was shot at Stoning hamby three young Sachems of 
his own rank. 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 375 

The defeat at the Narraganset fortress and the 
death of Canonchet were fatal blows to the fortunes 
of King Philip. He made an ineffectual attempt 
to raise a head of war by stirring up the Mohawks 
to take arms ; but, though possessed of the native 
talents of a statesman, his arts were counteracted 
by the superior arts of his enligiitened enemies, and 
the terror of their warlike skill began to subdue the 
resolution of the neii^hboring; tribes. The unfortu- 
nate chieftain saw himself daily stripped of power, 
and his rank§ rapidly thinning around him. Some 
were suborned by the whites ; others fell victims to 
hunger and fatigue and to the frequent attacks by 
which they were harassed. His stores were all 
captured ; hi? chosen friends were swept away from 
before his eyes ; his uncle was shot down by his side ; 
his sister was carried into captivity ; and in one of 
his narrow escapes he was compelled to leave his 
beloved wife and only son to the mercy of the en- 
emy, " His ruin," says the historian, "being thus 
gradually carried on, his misery was not prevented, 
but augmented thereby ; being himself made ac- 
quainted with the sense and experimental feeling of 
the captivity of his children, loss of friends, 
slaughter of his subjects, bereavement of all family 
relations, and being stripped of all outward com- 
forts before his own life should be taken awav." 

To fill up the measure of his misfortunes, his 
own followers began to plot against his life, that by 
sacrificing him they might purchase dishonorable 
safety. Through treachery a number of his faith- 
ful adherents, the subjects of Wetamoe, an Indian 
princess of Pocasset, a near kinswoman and con- 
federate of Philip, were betrayed into the hands of 



376 



tup: sketch- book. 



the enemy. Wetamoe was among them at the 
time, and attempted to make her escape by cross- 
ing a neighboring river : either exhausted by swim- 
ming or starved with cold and hunger, she was 
found dead and naked near the water-side. But 
persecution ceased not at the grave. Even death, 
the refuge of the wretched, where the wicked com- 
monly cease from troubling, was no protection to 
this outcast female, whose great crime was affec- 
tionate fidelity to her kinsman and her friend. 
Her corpse was the object of unmanly and das- 
tardly vengeance : the head was severed from the 
body and set upon a pole, and was thus exposed at 
Taunton to the view of lier captive subjects. They 
immediately recognized the features of their un- 
fortunate queen, and w-ere so affected at this bar- 
barous spectacle that we are told they broke forth 
into the "most horrid and diabolical lamenta- 
tions." 

However Philip had borne up against the com- 
plicated miseries and misfortunes that surrounded 
him, the treachery of his followers seemed to wring 
his heart and reduce him to despondency. It is 
said that ''he never rejoiced afterwards, nor had 
success in any of his designs," The spring of hope 
was broken— the ardor of enterprise was extin- 
guished ; he looked around, and all was danger and 
darkness ; there was no eye to pity nor any arm that 
could bring deliverance. With a scanty band of 
followers, who still remained true to his desperate 
fortunes, the unhappy Philip wandered back to the 
vicinity of Mount Hope, the ancient dwelling of his 
fathers. Here he lurked about like a spectre 
among the scenes of former power and prosperity, 



PHILIP OF POKA MOKK T. 377 

now bereft of home, of family, and of friend. There 
needs no better picture of his destitute and piteous 
situation than that furnished by the homely pen of 
the chronicler, who is unwarily enlisting the feelings 
of the reader in favor of the hapless warrior whom 
he reviles. " PhiHp," he says, " like a savage wild 
beast, having been hunted by tlie English forces 
through the woods above a hundred miles back- 
ward and forward, at last was driven to his own den 
upon Mount Hope, where he retired, with a few of 
his best friends, into a swamp, which proved but a 
prison to keep him fast till the messengers of death 
came by divine permission to execute vengeance 
upon him." 

Even in this last refuge of desperation and de- 
spair a sullen grandeur gathers round his memory. 
We picture him to ourselves seated among his 
care-worn followers, brooding in silence over his 
blasted fortunes/ and acquiring a savage sublimity 
from the wdldness and dreariness of his lurking- 
place. Defeated, but not dismayed — crushed to 
the earth, but not humiliated — he seemed to gro^y■ 
more haughty beneath disaster, and to expeience 
a fierce satisfaction in draining the last dregs of 
bitterness. Little minds are tamed and subdued 
by misfortune, but great minds rise above it. The 
very idea of submission awakened the fury of 
Philip, and he smote to death one of his followers 
who proposed an expedient of peace. The brother 
of the victim made his escape, and in revenge be- 
trayed the retreat of his chieftain, A body of 
white men and Indians were immediately de- 
spatched to the swamp where Philip lay crouched, 
glaring with fury and despair. Before he was aware 



378 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

of their approach they had begun to surround him. 
In a little while he saw five of his trustiest follow- 
ers laid dead at his feet ; all resistance was vain ; 
he rushed forth from his covert, and made a head- 
long attempt to escape, but was shot through the 
heart by a renegado Indian of his own nation. 

Such is the scanty story of the brave but unfor- 
tunate King Philip, persecuted while living, slan- 
dered and dishonored when dead. If, however, we 
consider even the prejudiced anecdotes furnished 
us by his enemies, we may perceive in them traces 
of amiable and loftly character sufficient to awaken 
sympathy for his fate and respect for his memory. 
We find that amidst all the harassing cares and 
ferocious passions of constant warfare he was alive 
to the softer feelings of connubial love and pater- 
nal tenderness and to the generous sentiment of 
friendship. The captivity of his " beloved wife and 
only son " are mentioned with exultation as caus- 
ing him poignant misery : the death of any near 
friend is triumphantly recorded as a new blow on 
his sensibilities ; but the treachery and desertion of 
many of his followers, in whose affections he had 
confided, is said to have desolated his heart and to 
have bereaved him of all further comfort. He was 
a patriot attached to his native soil — a prince true 
to his subjects and indignant of their wrongs — a 
soldier daring in battle, firm in adversity, patient 
of fatigue, of hunger, of every variety of bodily suf- 
fering, and ready to perish in the cause he had 
espoused. Proud of heart and with an untamable 
love of natural liberty, he preferred to enjoy it 
among the beasts of the forests or in the dismal 
and famished recesses of swamps and morasses;, 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 379 

father than bow his haughty spirit to submission 
iund live deperrdent and despised in the ease and 
)uxury of the settlements. With heroic qualities 
:ind bold achievements that would have graced a 
civilized warrior, and have rendered him the theme 
of the poet and the historian, he lived a wanderer 
and a fugitive in his native land, and went down, 
like a lonely bark foundering amid darkness and 
lempest, without a pitying eye to weep his fall or a 
friendly hand to record his struggle. 



380 THE SKETCH-BOOK, 



JOHN BULL. 

An old song, made by an aged old pate, 
Of an old worshipful gentleman who had a great estate. 
That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate, 
And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate. 

With an old study fill'd full of learned old books, 

With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his 

looks, 
With an old buttery-hatch worn quite off the hooks, 
And an old kitchen that maintained half-a-dozen old cooks. 
Like an old courtier, etc. — Old Song. 

There is no species of humor in which the Eng- 
lish more excel than that which consists in carica- 
turing and giving ludicrous appehations or nick- 
names. In this way they have whimsically desig- 
nated, not merely individuals, but nations, and in 
their fondness for pushing a joke they have not 
spared even themselves. One would think that in 
personifying itself a nation would be apt to picture 
something grand, heroic, and imposing; but it is 
characteristic of the peculiar humor of the English, 
"^nd of their love for what is blunt, comic, and 
familiar, that they have embodied their national 
oddities in the figure of a sturdy, corpulent old fel- 
low with a three-cornered hat, red waistcoat, leather 
breeches, and stout oaken cudgel. Thus they have 
taken a singular delight in exhibiting their most 
private foibles in a launchable point of view, and 
have been so successful in their delineations that 



JOI/N BULL. 381 

there is scarcely a being in actual existence more 
absolutely present to the public mind than that 
eccentric personage, John Bull. 

Perhaps the continual contemplation of the char- 
acter thus drawn of them has contributed to fix it 
upon the nation, and thus to give reality to what at 
first may have been painted in a great measure 
from the imagination. Men are apt to acquire 
peculiarities that are continually ascribed to them. 
The common orders of English seem wonderfully 
captivated with the beau ideal which they have 
formed of John Bull, and endeavor to act up to the 
broad caricature that is perpetually before their 
eyes. Unluckily, they sometimes make their boasted 
Bullism an apology for their prejudice or grossness ; 
and this I have especially noticed among those 
truly homebred and genuine sons of the soil who 
have never migrated beyond the sound of Bow 
bells. If one of these should be a little uncouth 
in speech and apt to utter impertinent truths, he 
confesses that he is a real John Bull and always 
speaks his mind. If he now and then flies into an 
unreasonable burst of passion about trifles, he ob- 
serves that John Bull is a choleric old blade, but 
then his passion is over in a moment and he bears 
no malice. If he betrays a coarseness of taste and 
an insensibility to foreign refinements, he thanks 
Heaven for his ignorance — he is a plain John Bull 
and has no relish for frippery and knick-knacks. His 
very proneness to be gulled by strangers and to 
pay extravagantly for absurdities is excused undef 
the plea of munificence, for John is always more 
generous than wise. 

Thus, under the name of John Bull he will con- 



382 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

trive to argue every fault into a merit, and will 
frankly convict himself of being the honestest fel 
low in existence. 

However little, therefore, the character may hav<; 
suited in the first instance, it has gradually adapted 
itself to the nation, or rather they have adapted 
themselves to each other; and a stranger who 
wishes to study English peculiarities may gather 
much valuable information from the innumerable 
portraits of John Bull as exhibited in the windows 
of the caricature-shops. Still, however, he is one 
of those fertile humorists that are continually throw- 
ing out new portraits and presenting different 
aspects from different points of view ; and, often 
as he has been described, I cannot resist the temp^ 
tation to give a slight sketch of him such as he has< 
met my eye. 

John Bull, to all appearance, is a plain, down- 
right, matter of-f act fellow, with much less ot 
poetry about him than rich prose. There is little 
of romance in his nature, but a vast deal of strong; 
natural feeling. He excels in humor more than in 
wit ; is jolly rather than gay ; melancholy rather 
than morose ; can easily be moved to a sudden tear 
or surprised into a broad laugh ; but he loathes 
sentiment and has no turn for light pleasantry. 
He is a boon companion, if you allow him to have 
his humor and to talk about himself ; and he will 
stand by a friend in a quarrel with life and purse, 
however soundly he may be cudgelled. 

In this last respect, to tell the truth, he has 3« 

propensity to be somewhat too ready. He is i 

busy-minded personage, who thinks not merely foi 

himself and familv, but for all the country round 

C26 



JOHN^ BULL. 383 

»tnd is most generously disposed to be everybody's 
':hampion. He is continually volunteering his 
.services to settle his neighbor's affairs, and takes it 
iin great dudgeon if they engage in any matter of 
consequence without asking his advice, though he 
seldom engages in any friendly office of the kind 
without finishing by getting into a squabble with all 
parties, and then railing bitterly at their ingratitude. 
He unluckily took lessons in his youth in the noble 
science of defence, and having accomplished him- 
self in the use of his limbs and his weapons and 
become a perfect master at boxing and cudgel-play, 
he has had a troublesome life of it ever since. He 
cannot hear of a quarrel between the most distant 
of his neighbors but he begins incontinently to 
fumble with the head of his cudgel, and consider 
whether his interest or honor does not require that 
he should meddle in the broil. Indeed, he has 
extended his relations of pride and policy so com- 
ipletely over the whole country that no event can 
take place without infringing some of his finely- 
spun rights and dignities. Couched in his little 
domain, with these filaments stretching forth in 
every direction, he is like some choleric, bottle- 
bellied old spider who has woven his web over a 
whole chamber, so that a fly cannot buzz nor a 
breeze blow without startling his repose and caus- 
ing him to sally forth wrathfuUy from his den. 

Though really a good-hearted, good-tempered 
old fellow at bottom, yet he is singularly fond of 
being in the midst of contention. It is one of his 
peculiarities, however, that he only relishes the 
beginning of an affray ; he always goes into a fight 
with alacrity, but comes out of it grumbling even 



384 THJ^^ SKETCH-BOOK. 

when victorious ; and tliough no one fights with 
more obstinacy to carry a contested point, yet 
when the battle is over and he comes to the 
reconciliation he is so much taken up with the mere 
shaking of hands that he is apt to let his antag- 
onist pocket all that they have been quarrelling 
about. It is not, therefore, fighting that he ought 
so much to be on his ruard against as making 
friends. It is di .icult tj cudgel him out of a 
farthing; but put him *i a good humor and you 
may bargain him out ot a^ the money in his pocket. 
He is like a stout ship which \.iil weather the 
roughest storm uninjured, but roll its masts over- 
board in the succeeding calm. 

He is a little fond of playing the magnifico 
abroad, of p .lling out a long purs::, flinging his 
money bravely about at boxing-matches, horse- 
races, cock-fights, and carrying a high head among 
"gentlemen of the fancy :" but immediate. y after 
one of these fits of extravagance he will be taken 
with violent qualms of economy ; stop .Jiort at 
the most trivial expenditure ; talk desperately ot 
being ruined and brought upon the parish ; and in 
such moods will not pay the smallest tradesman's 
bill without violent altercation. He rj, 1.1 fact, the 
most punctual and discontented paymaster in the 
world, drawing his coin out of his breeches pocket 
with infinite reluctance, paying to the ut.ermost 
farthing, but accompanying every guinea with a 
growl. 

With all his talk of economy, however, he is a 
bountiful provider and a hospitable housekeeper. 
His economy is of a whimsical kind, its chief object 
being to devise how^ he may afford to be extrava* 



JOHN BULL. 2,^^\ 

At ; for he will begrudge himself a beefsteak and 
D^.it of port one day that he may roast an ox whole, 
broach a hogshead of ale, and treat all his neighbors 
on the next. 

His domestic establishment is enormously 
ixpensive, not so much from any great outward 
parade as from the great consumption of solid beef 
and pudding, the vast number of followers he feeds 
and clothes, and his singular disposition to pay 
hugely for small services. He is a most kind and 
indulgent master, and, provided his servants humor 
his pecuharities, flatter his vanity a little now and 
then, and do not peculate grossly on him before his 
face they may manage him to perfection. Every- 
thing that lives on him seems to thrive and grow 
fat. His house-servants are well paid and pam- 
pered and have little to do. His horses are sleek and 
lazy and prance slowly before his state carriage ; 
and his house-dogs sleep quietly about the door 
and will hardly bark at a housebreaker. 

His familv mansion is an old castellated manor- 
house, gray with age, and of a most venerable 
ihough weather-beaten appearance. It has been 
built upon no regular plan, but is a vast accumu- 
lation of parts erected in various tastes and ages. 
The centre bears evident traces of Saxon architect- 
ure, and is as solid as ponderous stone and old 
English oak can make it. Like all the relics of that 
style, it is full of obscure passages, intricate mazes, 
and dusty chambers, and, though these have been 
partially lighted up in modern days, yet there are 
many places where you must still grope in the 
dark. Additions have been made to the original 
edifice from time to time, and great alterations 
25 



386 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

have taken place ; towers and ba dements have 
been erected during wars and tumults : wings built 
in time of peace ; and out-houses, lodges, and 
offices run up according to the whim or conven- 
ience of different generations, until it has become 
one of the most spacious, rambling tenements 
imaginable. An entire wing is taken up with the 
family chapel, a reverend pile that must have been 
exceedingly sumptuous, and, indeed, in spite of 
having been altered and simplified at various 
periods, has still a look of solemn religious pomp. 
Its walls within are storied with the monuments of 
John's ancestors, and it is snugly fitted up with soft 
•<:iishions and well-lined chairs, where such of his 
family as are inclined to church services may doze 
comfortably in the discharge of their duties. 

To keep up this chapel has cost John much 
money ; but he is staunch in his religion and 
piqued in his zeal, from the circumstance that many 
dissenting chapels have been erected in his vicinity, 
and several of his neighbors, with whom he has 
had quarrels, are strong papists. 

To do the duties of the chapel he maintains, at 
a large expense, a pious and portly family chaplain. 
He is a most learned and decorous personage and a 
truly well-bred Christian, who always backs the old 
gentleman in his opinions, winks discreetly at his 
little peccadilloes, rebukes the children when re- 
fractory, and is of great use in exhorting the ten- 
ants to read their Bibles, say their prayers, and, 
above all, to pay their rents punctually and with- 
out grumbling. 

The family apartments are in a very antiquated 
taste, somewhat heavy and often inconvenient, but 



JOHX BULL. 387 

full of the solemn magnificence of former times, 
fitted up with rich though faded tapestry, unwieldy 
furniture, and loads of massy, gorgeous old plate. 
The vast fireplaces, ample kitchens, extensive 
cellars, and sumptuous banqueting-halls all speak 
of the roaring hospitality of days of yore, of which 
the modern festivity at the manor-house is but a 
shadow. There are, however, complete suites of 
rooms apparently deserted and time-worn, and 
towers and turrets that are tottering to decay, so 
that in high winds there is danger of their tumbling 
about the ears of the household. 

John has frequently been advised to have the 
old edifice thoroughly overhauled, and to have 
some of the useless parts pulled down, and the 
others strengthened with their materials ; but the 
old gentleman always grows testy on this subject. 
He swears the house is an excellent house ; that it 
is tight and weather-proof, and not to be shaken by 
tempests ; that it has stood for several hundred 
years, and therefore is not likely to tumble down 
now ; that as to its being inconvenient, his family 
is accustomed to the inconveniences and would not 
be comfortable without them ; that as to its unwieldy 
size and irregular construction, these result from its 
being the growth of centuries and being improved 
by the wisdom of every generation ; that an old 
family, like his, requires a large house to dwell in ; 
new, upstart families may live in moclern cottages 
and snug boxes ; but an old English family should 
inhabit an old English manor-house. If you point 
out any part of the building as superfluous, he insists 
that it is material to the strength or decoration of 
the rest and the harmony of the whole, and swears 



388 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

that the parts are so built into each other that it you 
pull clown one, you run the risk of having the whole 
about your ears. 

I'he secret of the matter is, that John has a great 
disposition to protect and patronize. He thinks 
it indispensable to the dignity of an ancient and 
honorable family to be bounteous in its appoint- 
ments and to be eaten up by dependents ; and so, 
partly from pride and partly from kind-heartedness, 
he makes it a rule always to give shelter and main- 
tenance to his superannuated servants. 

The consequence is, that, like many other vener- 
able family establishments, his manor is incum- 
bered by old retainers whom he cannot turn oft, 
and an old style which he cannot lay down. His 
mansion is like a great hospital of invalids, and, 
with all its magnitude, is not a whit too large for its 
inhabitants. Not a nook or corner but is of use 
in housing some useless personage. Groups of 
veteran beef-eaters, gouty pensioners, and retired 
heroes of the buttery and the larder are seen lolling 
about its walls, crawling over its lawns, dozing 
under its trees, or sunning themselves upon the 
benches at its doors. Every office and out-house is 
garrisoned by these supernumeraries and their 
families ; for they are amazingly prolific, and when 
they die off are sure to leave John a legacy of 
hungry mouths to be provided for. A mattock 
cannot be struck against the most mouldering 
tumble-down tower but out pops, from some cranny 
or loophole, the gray pate of some superannuated 
hanger-on, who has lived at John's expense all his 
life, and makes the most grievous outcry at their 
pulling down the roof from over the head of a worn- 



JO HA' BULL. 389 

out servant of the family. This is an appeal that 
John's honest heart never can withstand ; so that a 
man who has faithfully eaten his beef and pudding 
all his life is sure to be rewarded with a pipe and 
tankard in his old days. 

A great part of his park also is turned into pad- 
docks, where his broken-down chargers are turned 
loose to graze undisturbed for the remainder of 
their existence — a worthy example of grateful recol- 
lection which, if some of his neighbors were to im- 
itate, would not be to their discredit. Indeed, it is 
one of his great pleasures to point out these old 
steeds to his visitors, to dwell on their good qual- 
ities, extol their past services, and boast, with some 
little vain-glory, of the perilous adventures and 
hardv exploits through which they have carried 
him. 

He is given, however, to indulge his veneration 
for family usages and family incumbrances to a 
whimsical extent. His manor is infested by gangs 
of gypsies ; yet he will not suffer them to be driven 
off, because they have infested the place time out 
of mind and been regular poachers upon every gen- 
eration of the family. He will scarcely permit a 
dry branch to be lopped from the great trees that 
surround the house, lest it should molest the rooks 
that have bred there for centuries. Owls have 
taken possession of the dovecote, but they are heredi- 
tary owls and must not be disturbed. Swallows 
have nearlv choked up everv chimnev with their 
nests ; martins build in every frieze and cornice ; 
crows flutter about the towers and perch on every 
weather-cock ; and old gray-headed rats may bf! 
seen in every quarter of the house, running in -iind 



39° 



THE SKETCH-BOOK^ 



out of their holes undauntedly in broad daylight. 
In short, John has such a reverence for everything 
that has been long in the family that he will not 
hear even of abuses being reformed, because they 
are good old family abuses. 

All these whims and habits have concurred woe- 
fully to drain the old gentleman's purse ; and as he 
prides himself on punctuality in money matters and 
wishes to maintain his credit in the neighborhood, 
they have caused him great perplexity in meeting 
his engagements. This, too, has been increased 
by the altercations and heart-burnings which are 
continually taking place in his family. His children 
have been brought up to different callings and are 
of different ways of thinking; and as they have 
always been allowed to speak their minds freely, 
they do not fail to exercise the privilege most clam- 
orously in the present posture of his affairs. 
Some stana up for the honor of the race, and are 
clear that the old establishment should be kept up 
in all its state, whatever may be the cost ; others, 
who are more prudent and considerate, entreat the 
old gentleman to retrench his expenses and to put 
his whole system of housekeeping on a more mod- 
erate footing. He has, indeed, at times, seemed 
inclined to listen to their opinions, but their whole- 
some advice has been completely defeated by the 
obstreperous conduct of one of his sons. This is 
a noisy, rattle-pated fellow, of rather low habits, 
who neglects his business to frequent ale-houses — 
is the orator of village clubs and a complete oracle 
among the poorest of his father's tenants. No 
sooner does he hear any of his brothers mention 
iseform or retrenchment than up he jumps, takes 



JOHN BULL. 391 

the words ^^at of their mouths, and roars out for ati 
overturn. When his tongue is once going nothing 
can stop it. He rants about the room ; hectors the 
old man about his spendthrift practices ; ridicules 
his tastes and pursuits ; insists that he shall turn 
the old servants out of doors, give the broken-down 
horses to the hounds, send the fat chaplain pack- 
ing, and take a field-preacher in his place ; nay, 
that the whole family mansion shall be levelled with 
the ground, and a plain one of brick and mortar 
built in its place. He rails at every social enter- 
tainment and family festivity, and skulks away 
growling to the ale-house whenever an equipage 
drives up to the door. Though constantly com- 
plaining of the emptiness of his purse, yet he 
scruples not to spend all his pocket-money in these 
tavern convocations, and even runs up scores for 
the liquor over which he preaches about his father's 
extravagance. 

It may readily be imagined how little such thwart- 
ing agrees with the old cavalier's fiery temperament. 
He has become so irritable from repeated crossings 
that the mere mention of retrenchment or reform is 
a signal for a brawl between him and the tavern 
oracle. As the latter is too sturdy and refractory 
for paternal discipline, having grown out of all fear 
of the cudgiil, they have frequent scenes of wordy 
warfare, which at times run so high that John is 
fain to call in the aid of his son Tom, an officer 
who has served abroad, but is at present living at 
home on half-pay. This last is sure to stand by 
the old gentleman, right or wrong, likes nothing so 
much as a racketing, roistering life, and is ready at 
a wink or nod to out sabre and flourish it over the 



592 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 



orator's head if he dares to array himself against 
parental authority. 

These family dissensions, as usual, have got 
abroad, and are rare food for scandal in John's 
neighborhood. People begin to look wise and 
shake their heads whenever his affairs are men- 
tioned. They all " hope that matters are not so 
bad with him as represented ; but when a man's 
own children begin to rail at his extravagance, 
things must be badly managed. They understand 
he is mortgaged over head and ears and is con- 
tinually dabbling with money-lenders. He is cer- 
tainly an open-handed old gentleman, but they fear 
he has lived too fast; indeed, they never knew any 
good come of this fondness for hunting, racing 
revelling, and prize-fighting. In short, Mr. Bull's 
estate is a very fine one and has been in the family 
a long while, but, for all that, they have known many 
finer estates come to the hammer." 

What is worst of all, is the effect which these 
pecuniary embarrassments and domestic feuds have 
had on the poor man himself. Instead of that 
jolly round corporation and smug rosy face which 
he used to present, he has of late become as shriv- 
elled and shrunk as a frost-bitten apple. His 
scarlet gold-laced waistcoat, which bellied out so 
bravely in those prosperous days when he sailed 
before the wind, now hangs loosely about him 
like a mainsail in a calm. His leather breeches 
are all in folds and wrinkles, and apparently have 
much ado to hold up the boots that yawn on both 
sides of his once sturdy legs. 

Instead of strutting about as formerly with his 
three-corneaed hat on one side, flourishing his 



JOHN BULL. 393 

cudgel, and bringing it down every moment with a 
hearty thump upon the ground, looking every one 
sturdily in the face, and trolling out a stave of a 
catch or a drinking song, he now goes about whis- 
tling thoughtfully to himself, with his head drooping 
down, his cudgel tucked under his arm, and his 
hands thrust to the JDottom of his breeches pockets, 
which are evidently empt}'. 

Such is the plight of honest John Bull at present, 
yet for all this the old fellow's spirit is as tall and 
as gallant as ever. If you drop the least expres- 
sion of sympathy or concern, he takes fire in an 
instant ; swears that he is the richest and stoutest 
fellow in the co^untry ; talks of laying out large sums 
to adorn his house or buy another estate ; and with 
a valiant swagger and grasping of his cudgel longs 
exceedingly to have another bout at quarter-staff. 

Though there may be something rather whimsical 
in all this, yet I confess 1 cannot look upon John's 
situation without strong feelings of interest, \^'ith 
all his odd' humors and obstinate prejudices he is 
a sterling-hearted old blade. He may not be so 
wonderfully fine a fellow as he thinks himself, but 
he is at least twice as good as his neighbors repre- 
sent him. His virtues are all his own — all plain, 
homebred, and unaffected. His very faults smack 
of the raciness of his good qualities. His extrava- 
gance savors of his generosity, his quarrelsomeness 
of his courage, his credulity of his open faith, his 
vanity of his pride, and his bluntness of his sincer- 
ity. They are all the redundancies of a rich and 
liberal character. He is like his own oak, rough 
without, but sound and solid within ; whose bark 
abounds with excrescences in proportion to the 



394 T-^^ SKETCn-BOOK. 

growth and grandeur of the timber; and whose 
branches make a fearful groaning: and murmurins: 
in the least storm from their very magnitude and 
luxuriance. There is something, too, in the appear- 
ance of his old family mansion that is extremely 
poetical and picturesque ; and as long as it can be 
rendered comfortably habitable I should almost 
tremble to see it meddled with during the present 
conflict of tastes and opinions. Some of his ad- 
visers are no doubt good architects that might be 
of service ; but many, I fear, are mere levellers, 
who, when they had once got to work with their 
mattocks on this venerable edifice, would never 
stop until they had brought it to the ground, and 
perhaps buried themselves among the ruins. All 
that I wish is, that John's present troubles may 
teach him more prudence in future— that he may 
cease to distress his mind about other people's 
affairs ; that he may give up the fruitless attempt 
to promote the good of his neighbors and the peace 
and happiness of the world, by dint of the cudgel ; 
that he may remain quietly at home ; gradually get 
his house into repair ; cultivate his rich estate ac- 
cording to his fancy ; husband his income — if he 
thinks proper ; bring his unruly children into order 
■ — if he can ; renew the jovial scenes of ancient 
prosperity ; and long enjoy on his paternal lands a 
green, an honorable, and a merry old age. 



THE PRIDE OE THE VILLAGE. 



395 



. THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 

May no wolfe howle ; no screech owle stir 
A wing about thy sepulchre ! 
No boysterous winds or stormes come hither, 

To starve or wither 
Thy soft sweet earth I but, hke a spring, 
Love kept it ever flourishing. 

Herrick. 

In the course of an excursion through one of the 
remote counties of England, I had struck into one 
of those cross-roads that lead through the more se- 
cluded parts of the country, and stopped one after- 
noon at a village the situation of which was beauti- 
fully rural and retired. There was an air of primi- 
tive simplicity about its inhabitants not to be found 
in the villages which lie on the great coach-roads. 
I determined to pass the night there, and, having 
taken an early dinner, strolled out to enjoy the 
neighboring scenery. 

My ramble, as is usually the case with travellers, 
soon led me to the church, which stood at a little 
distance from the village. Indeed, it was an object 
of some curiosity, its old tower being completely 
overrun with ivy, so that only here and there a 
jutting buttress, an angle of gray wall, or a fantas- 
tically carved ornament peered through the verdant 
covering. It was a lovely evening. The early part 
of the day had been dark and showery, but in the 
afternoon it had cleared up, and, though sullen 



396 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

clouds still hung overhead, yet there was a broad 
tract of golden sky in the west, from which the set- 
ting sun gleamed through the dripping leaves and 
lit up all Nature into a melancholy smile. It 
seemed like the parting hour of a good Christian 
smiling on the sins and sorrows of the world, and 
giving, in the serenity of his decline, an assurance 
that he will rise again in glory. 

I had seated myself on a half-sunken tombstone, 
and was musing, as one is apt to do at this sober- 
thoughted hour, on past scenes and early friends — 
on those who were distant and those who were dead 
— and indulging in that kind of melancholy fancy- 
ing which has in it something sweeter even than 
pleasure. Every now and then the stroke of a bell 
from the neighboring tower fell on my ear ; its 
tones M'ere in unison with the scene, and, instead 
of jarring, chimed in with my feelings ; and it was 
some time before I recollected that it must be toll- 
ing: the knell of some new t.nant of the tomb. 

• • 1 

Presently I saw a funeral tram movmg across the 

village green ; it wound slowly along a lane, was 
lost, and reappeared through the breaks of the 
hedges, until it passed the place where I was sitting. 
The pall was supported by young girls dressed in 
(\diite, and another, about the age of seventeen, 
walked before, bearing a chaplet of white flowers — 
a token that the deceased was a young and un- 
married female. The corpse was followed by the 
parents. They were a venerable couple of the bet- 
ter order of peasantry. The father seemed to re- 
press his feelings, but his fixed eye, contracted 
brow, and deeply-furrowed face showed the struggle 
that was passing within. His wife hung on his 



THE PRIDE OE THE J'/LLAGE. 397 

arm, and wept aloud with the convulsive bursts of 
a mother's sorrow. 

I followed the funeral into the church. The bier 
was placed in the centre aisle, and the chaplet of 
white flowers, with a pair of white gloves, was hung 
over the seat which the deceased had occupied. 

Every one knows the soul-subduing pathos of the 
funeral service, for who is so fortunate as never to 
have followed some one he has loved to the tomb ? 
But when performed over the remains of innocence 
and beautv, thus laid low in the bloom of existence, 
what can be more affecting.? At that simple but 
most solemn consignment of the body to the grave — 
" Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust ! " — 
the tears of the youthful companions of the deceased 
flowed unrestrained. The father still seemed to 
struggle witli his feelings, and to comfort himself 
with the assurance that the dead are blessed which 
die in the Lord ; but the mother only thought of 
her child as a flower of the field cut down and 
withered in the midst of its sweetness ; she was 
like Rachel " mourning over her children, and 
would not be comforted." 

On returning to the inn I learnt the whole story 
of the deceased. It was a simple one, and such as 
has often been told. She had been the beauty and 
pride of the village. Her father had once been an 
opulent farmer, but was reduced in circumstances. 
This was an only child, and brought up entirely at 
home in the simplicity of rural life. She had been 
the pupil of the village pastor, the favorite lamb of 
his little flock. The good man watched over her 
education with paternal care ; it was limited and 
suitable to the sphere in which she was to move 



398 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

for he only sought to make her an ornament to her 
station in life, not to raise her above it. The ten- 
derness and indulgence of her parents and the ex- 
emption from all ordinary occupations had fostered 
a natural grace and delicacy of character that ac- 
corded with the fragile loveliness of her form. She 
appeared like some tender plant of the garden 
blooming accidentally amid the hardier natives of 
the fields. 

The superiority of her charms was felt and ac- 
knowledged by her companions, but without envy,, 
for it was surpassed by the unassuming gentleness 
and winning kindness of her manners. It might 
be truly said of her : 

"This is tlie prettiest low-born lass, that ever 
Ran on the green-sward : notliing she does or seems 
]^)Ut smacks of something greater than herself ; 
Too noble for this place." 

The village was one of those sequestered spots 
which still retain some vestiges of old English 
customs. It had its rural festivals and holiday 
pastimes, and still kept up some faint observance 
of the once popular rites of May. These, indeed, 
had been promoted by its present pastor, who was 
a lover of old customs and one of those simple 
Christians that think their mission fulfilled by pro- 
moting joy on earth and good-will among mankind. 
Under his auspices the May-pole stood from year 
to year in the centre of the village green ; on May- 
day it was decorated with garlands and streamers, 
and a queen or lady of the May was appointed, as 
in former times, to preside at the sports and distrib- 
ute the prizes and rewards. The picturesque sit- 
uation of the village and the fancifulness of its 



THE PRIDE OE THE VILLAGE. 399 

rustic fetes would often attract the notice of casual 
visitors. Among these, on one May-day, was a 
young officer whose regiment had been recently 
quartered in the neighborhood. He was charmed 
with the native taste that pervaded this village 
pageant, but, above all, with the dawning loveliness 
of the queen of May. It was the village favorite 
who was crowned with flowers, and blushing and 
smiling in all the beautiful confusion of girlish dif- 
fidence and delight. The artlessness of rural 
habits enabled him readily to make her acquaint- 
ance; he gradually won his way into her intimacy, 
and paid his court to her in that unthinking way in 
which young officers are too apt to trifle with rustic 
simplicity. 

There was nothinir in his advances to startle or 
alarm. He never even talked of love, but there 
are modes of making it more eloquent than lan- 
guage, and which convey it subtilely and irresistibly 
to the heart. The beam of the eye, the tone of 
voice, the thousand tendernesses which emanate 
from every word and look and action, — these form 
the true eloquence of love, and can always be felt 
and understood, but never described. Can we 
wonder that they should readily win a heart young, 
guileless, and susceptible ? As to her, she loved 
almost unconsciously^; she scarcely inquired what 
was the growing passion that was absorbing every 
thought and feeling, or what were to be its conse- 
quences. She, indeed, looked not to the future. 
When present, his looks and words occupied her 
whole attention ; when absent, she thought but of 
what had passed at their recent interview. She 
would wander with him through the green, lanes 



400 T/IL SKJ'lTCil-bOOK. 

and rural scenes of the vicinity. He taii2:ht her 
to see new beauties in Nature ; he talked in the 
language of polite and cultivated life, and breathed 
into her ear the witcheries of romance and poetry. 

Perhaps there could not have been a passion 
between the sexes more pure than this innocent 
girl's. The gallant figure of her youthful admirer 
and the splendor of his military attire might at first 
have charmed her eye, but it was not these that 
had captivated her heart. Her attachment had 
son''.ething in it of idolatry. She looked up to him 
as to a being of a superior order. She felt in his 
society the enthusiasm of a mind naturally delicate 
and poetical, and now first awakened to a keen 
perception of the beautiful and grand. Of the sor- 
did distinctions of rank and fortune she thought 
nothing; it was the difference of intellect, of 
demeanor, of manners, from those of the rustic 
society to which she had been accustomed, that 
elevated him in her opinion. She would listen to 
him with charmed ear and downcast look of mute 
delight, and her cheek would mantle with enthu- 
siasm ; or if ever she ventured a shy glance of 
timid admiration, it was as quickly withdrawn, and 
she would sigh and blush at the idea of her com- 
parative unworthiness. 

Her lover was equally impassioned, but his pas- 
sion was mingled with feelings of a coarser nature. 
He had begun the connection in levity, for he had 
often heard his brother-officers boast of their village 
conquests, and thought some triumph of the kind 
necessary to his reputation as a man of spirit. But 
he was too full of youthful fervor. His heart had 
not yet been rendered sufficiently cold and selfish 



THE PRIDE OF TJIE VILLAGE. 401 

by a wandering and a dissipated life : it caui::lit fire 
from the very fiame it souglit to kindle, and before 
he was aware of the nature of his situation he 
became really in love. 

What was he to do ? There were the old ob- 
stacles which so incessantly occur in these heedless 
attachments. His rank in life, the prejudices of 
titled connections, his dependence upon a proud 
and unyielding father, all forbade him to think of 
matrimony; but when he looked down upon this 
innocent being, so tender and confiding, there was 
a purity in her manners, a blamelessness in her life, 
and a beseeching modesty in her looks that awed 
down every licentious feeling. In vain did he try 
to fortify himself by a thousand heartless examples 
of men of fashion, and to chill the glow of gener- 
ous sentiment with that cold derisive levity with 
which he had heard them talk of female virtue : 
whenever he came into her presence she was still 
surrounded by that mysterious but impassive charm 
of virgin purity in whose hallowed sphere no guilty 
thought can live. 

The sudden arrival of orders for the regiment to 
repair to the Continent completed the confusion of 
his mind. He remained for a short time in a state 
of the most painful irresolution ; he hesitated to 
communicate the tidings until the dav for march- 
ing was at hand, when he gave her the intelligence 
in the course of an evening ramble. 

The idea of parting had never before occurred to 
her. It broke in at once upon her dream of fe- 
licity ; she looked upon it as a sudden and insur- 
mountable evil, and wept with the guileless sim- 
plicity of a child. He drew her to his bosom and 
26 



402 THE SA'ErCII-BOOK. 

kissed the tears from her soft cheek ; nor did he meei 
with a repulse, for there are moments of mingle<!| 
sorrow and tenderness whicli hallow the caressej, 
of affection. He was naturally impetuous, and the? 
sight of beauty apparently yielding in his arms,, 
the confidence of his power over her, and the 
dread of losing her forever all conspired to over- 
whelm his better feelings : he ventured to propose 
that she should leave her home and be the com- 
panion of his fortunes. 

He was quite a novice in seduction, and blushed 
and faltered at his own baseness ; but so innocent 
of mind was his intended victim that she was at 
first at a loss to comprehend his meaning, and why 
she should leave her native village and the humble 
roof of her parents. When at last the nature of 
his proposal flashed upon her pure mind, the effect 
was withering. She did not weep ; she did not 
break forth into reproach ; she said not a word, 
but she shrunk back aghast as from a viper, gave 
him a look of anguish that pierced to his very 
soul, and, clasping hei hands in agony, fled, as if 
for refuge, to her father's cottage. 

The officer retired confounded, humiliated, and 
repentant. It is uncertain what might have been 
the result of the conflict of his feelings, had not 
his thouo:hts been diverted bv the bustle of de- 
parture. New scenes, new pleasures, and new 
companions soon dissipated his self-reproach and 
stifled his tenderness ; yet, amidst the stir of 
camps, the revelries of garrisons, the array of 
armies, and even the din of battles, his thoughts 
would sometimes steal back to the scenes of rural 
quiet and village simplicity — the white cottage, the 



THE J^RIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 403 

/ootpath along the silver brook and up the haw- 
thorn hedge, and the little village maid loitering 
along it, leaning on his arm and listening to him 
vvith eyes beaming with unconscious' affection. 

The shock which the poor girl had received in 
the destruction of all her ideal world had indeed 
been cruel. Faintings and hysterics had at first 
shaken her tender frame, and were succeeded by a 
settled and pining melancholy. She had beheld 
from her window the march of the departing 
troops. She had seen her faithless lover borne off, 
as if in triumph, amidst the sound of drum and 
trumpet and the pomp of arms. She strained a 
last aching gaze after him as the morning sun 
glittered about his figure and his plume waved 
in the breeze ; he passed away like a bright 
vision from hfer sight, and left her all in dark- 
ness. 

It would be trite to dwell on the particulars of 
her after story. It was, like other tales of love, 
melancholy. She avoided society and wandered 
out alone in the walks she had most frequented 
with her lover. She sought, like the stricken deer, 
to weep in silence and loneliness and brood over 
the barbed sorrow that rankled in her soul. Some- 
times she would be seen late of an evening sitting 
in the porch of the village church, and the milk- 
maids, returning from the fields, would now and 
then overhear her singing some plaintive ditty 
in the hawthorn walk. She became fervent in her 
devotions at church, and as the old people saw her 
approach, so wasted away, yet with a hectic gloom 
and that hallowed air which melancholy diffuses 
round the form, they would make way for her as 



4C4 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

for something spiritual, and looking after hei, would 
shake their heads in gloomy foreboding. 

She felt a conviction that she was hastening to 
the tomb, but looked forward to it as a place of 
rest. The silver cord that had bound her to exist- 
ence was loosed, and there seemed to be no more 
pleasure under the sun. If ever her gentle bosom 
had entertained resentment against her lover, it 
was extinguished. She was incapable of angry- 
passions, and in a moment of saddened tenderness 
she penned him a farewell letter. It was couched 
in the simplest language, but touching from its very' 
simplicity. She told him that she was dying, and 
did not conceal from him that his conduct was the 
cause. She even depicted the sufferings which she 
had experienced, but concluded with saying that 
she could not die in peace until she had sent him 
her forgiveness and her blessing. 

By degrees her strength declined that she could 
no longer leave the cottage. She could only totter 
to the window, where, propped up in her chair, it 
was her enjoyment to sit all day and look out upon 
the landscape. Still she uttered no complaint nor 
imparted to any one the malady that was preying 
on her heart. She never even mentioned her 
lover's name, but would lay her head on her mother's 
bosom and weep in silence. Her poor parents 
hung in mute anxiety over this fading blossom of 
their hopes, still flattering themselves that it might 
again revive to freshness and that the bright un- 
earthly bloom which sometimes flushed her cheek 
might be the promise of returning health. 

In this way she wns seared between them one 
Sunday afternoon ; her hands were clasped in 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 



40.5 



theirs, the lattice was thrown open, and the soft air 
that stole in brought with it the fragrance of the 
clusterinGf honeysuckle which her own hands had 
trained round the window. 

Her father had just been reading a chapter in 
the Bible : it spoke of the vanity of worldly things 
and of the joys of heaven : it seemed to have dif- 
fused comfort and serenity through her bosom. 
Her eye was fixed on the distant village church : 
the belL had tolled for the evening service ; the last 
villager was lagging into the porch, and everything 
had sunk into that hallowed stillness peculiar to 
the day of rest. Her parents were gazing on her 
with yearning hearts. Sickness and sorrow, which 
pass so roughly over some faces, had given to hers 
the expression of a seraph's. A tear trembled in 
her soft blue eve. Was she thinking of her faith- 
less lover ? or were her thoughts wandering to that 
distant churchyard, into whose bosom she might 
soon be gathered t 

Suddenly the clang of hoofs was heard : a horse- 
man galloped to the cottage ; he dismounted before 
the window ; the poor girl gave a faint exclamation 
and sunk back in her chair : it was her repentant 
lover. He rushed into the house and flew to clasp 
her to his bosom ; but her wasted form, her death- 
like countenance — so wan, yet so lovely in its 
desolation — smote him to the soul, and he threw 
himself in agony at her feet. She was too faint to 
rise— she attempted to extend her trembling hand 
— her lips moved as if she spoke, but no word was 
articulated : she looked down upon him with a smile 
of unutterable tenderness, and closed her eyes for- 
ever. 



4oG THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

Such are the particulars which I gathered of this 
village story. They are but scanty, and I am con- 
scious have little novelty to recommend them. In 
the present rage also for strange incident and high- 
seasoned narrative they may appear trite and in- 
significant, but they interested me strongly at the 
time ; and, taken in connection with the affecting 
ceremony which I had just witnessed, left a deeper 
impression on my mind than many circumstances 
of a more striking nature. I have passed through 
the place since, and visited the church again from 
a better motive than mere curiosity. It was a 
wintry evening : the trees were stripped of their 
foliage, the churchyard looked naked and mourn- 
ful, and the wind rustled coldly through the dry 
grass. Evergreens, however, had been planted 
about the grave of the village favorite, and osiers 
were bent over it to keep the turf uninjured. 

The church-door v»'as open and I stepped in. 
There hung the chaplet of flowers and the gloves, 
as on the day of the funeral : the flowers were 
withered, it is true, but care seemed to have been 
taken that no dust should soil their whiteness. I 
have seen many monuments where art has ex- 
hausted its powers to awaken the sympathy of the 
spectator, but I have met with none that spokd 
more touchingly to my heart than this simple but 
delicate memento of departed innocence. 



TIJE ANGLER. 



40} 



THE ANGLER. 

This day Dame Nature seem'd in love. 

The lusty sap began to move, 

Fresh juice did stir tli' embracing vines, 

And birds had drawn their valentines. 

The jealous trout that low did lie, 

Rose at a well-dissembled flie. 

There stood my friend, with patient skilb 

Attending of his trembling quill. 

Sir H. Wotton. 

It is said that many an unlucky urchin is in- 
duced to run away from his family and betake him- 
self to a seafaring: life from readins: the history of 
Robinson Crusoe ; and I suspect that, in like man- 
ner, many of those worthy gentlemen who are given 
to haunt the sides of pastoral streams with angle- 
rods in hand may trace the origin of their passion 
to the seductive pages of honest Izaak Walton. I 
recollect studying his Couiplde Angler se\'eral years 
since in company with a knot of friends in America, 
and moreover that we were all completely bitten 
with the angling mania. It was early in the year, 
but as soon as the weather was auspicious, and 
that the spring began to melt into the verge of 
summer, we took rod in hand and sallied into the 
country, as stark mad as was ever Don Quixote 
[rom reading books of chivalry. 

One of our party had equalled the Don in the 
Culness of his equipments, being attired cap-a-pie 
for the enterprise. He wore a broad-skirted fus- 



4o8 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

tiaii coat, perplexed with half a hundred pockets ; 
a pair of stout shoes and leathern gaiters ; a basket 
slung on one side for fish ; a patent rod, a landing 
net, and a score of other inconveniences only to be 
found in the true angler's armory. Thus harnessed 
for the field, he was as great a matter of stare and 
wonderment among the country folk, who had 
never s'jcn a regular angler, as was the steel-clad 
hero of La Mancha among the goatherds of the 
Sierra Morena. 

Our first essay was along a mountain brook among 
the Hiofhlands of the Hudson — a most unfortunate 
place for the execution of those piscatory tactics 
which liad been invented along the velvet margins 
of quiet English rivulets. It was one of those wild 
streams that lavish, among our romantic solitudes, 
unheeded beauties enough to fill the sketch-book of 
a hunter of the picturesque. Sometimes it would 
leap down rocky shelves, making small cascades, 
over which the trees threw their broad balancing 
sprays and long nameless weeds hung in fringes from 
the impending banks, dripping with diamond drops. 
Sometimes it would brawl and fret along a ravine in 
the matted shade of a forest, filling it with murmurs, 
and after this termagant career would steal forth into 
open day with the most placid, demure face imagin- 
able, as I have seen some pestilent shrew of a house- 
wife, after filling her home with uproar and ill-humor, 
come dimpling out of doors, swimming and curtsey- 
ing and smiling upon all the world. 

How smoothly w^ould this vagrant brook glide at 
such times through some bosom of green meadow- 
land among the mountains, where the quiet was 
onl}^ interrupted by the occasional tinkling of a bell 



THE ANGLER. 409 

from the lazy cattle among the clover or the sound 
of a woodcutter's axe from the neighboring 
forest ! 

For my part, I wns always a bungler at all kinds 
of sport that required either patience or adroitness, 
and had not angled above half an hour before I 
had completely " satisfied the sentiment," and con- 
vinced myself of the truth of Izaak Walton's opin- 
ion, that angling is something like poetry — a man 
must be born to it. I hooked myself instead of 
the fish, tangled my line in every tree, lost my bait, 
broke my rod, until 1 gave up the attempt in de- 
spair, and passed the day under the trees reading 
old izaak, satisfied that it was his fascinating vein 
of honest simplicity and rural feeling that had be- 
witched me, and not the passion for angling. My 
companions, however, were more persevering in their 
delusion. I have them at this moment before my 
eyes, stealing along the border of the brook where it 
lay open to the day or was merely fringed by shrubs 
and bushes. I see the bittern rising with hollow 
scream as they break in upon his rarely-invaded 
haunt; the kingfisher watching them suspiciously 
from his dry tree that overhangs the deep black mill- 
pond in the gorge of the hills; the tortoise letting 
himself slip sideways from off the stone or log on 
which he is sunning himself; and the panic-struck 
frog plumping in headlong as they approach, and 
spreading an alarm throughout the watery world 
around. 

I recollect also that, after toiling and watching 
and creeping about for the greater part of a day, 
with scarcely any success in spite of all our admi- 
rable apparatus, a lubberly country urchin came 



41 o THf. SK'L'fCII-BOOK. 

down from the hills with a rod made from a branch 
of a tree, a few yards of twine, and, as Heave*' 
shall help me ! I believe a crooked pin for a hook 
baited with a vile earthworm, and in half an houi 
caught more fish than we had nibbles throughout 
the day! 

But, above all, I recollect the "good, honest, 
wholesome, hungry " repast which we made under 
a beech tree just by a spring of pure sweet water 
that stole out of the side of a hill, and how, when 
it was over, one of the party read old Izaak Walton's 
scene with the milkmaid, while I lay on the grass 
and built castles in a bright pile of clouds until I 
fell asleep. All this may appear like mere egotism, 
yet I cannot refrain from uttering these recollec- 
tions, which are' passing like a strain of music over 
my mind and have been called up by an agreeable 
scene which I witnessed not long since. 

In the morning's stroll along the banks of the 
Alun, a beautiful little stream which flows down 
from the Welsh hills and throws itself into the Dee, 
my attention was attracted to a group seated on 
the margin. On approaching I found it to consist 
of a veteran angler and two rustic disciples. The 
former was an old fellow with a wooden leg, with 
clothes very much but very carefully patched, be^ 
tokening poverty honestly come by and decentljA 
maintained. His face bore the marks of former 
storms, but present fair weather, its furrows had 
been worn into an habitual smile, his iron-gray locks 
hung about his ears, and he had altogether the good- 
humored air of a constitutional philosopher wh-o 
was disposed to take the world as it went. One of 
his companions was a ragged wight with the skulfe- 



THE ANGLER. 



411 



jng look of an arrant poacher, and I'll warrant 
could find his way to any gentleman's fish-pond in 
the neighborhood in the darkest night. The other 
•\vas a tall, awkward country lad, with a lounging 
gait, and apparently somewhat of a rustic beau. 
The old man was busy in examining the maw of a 
trout which he had just killed, to discover by its 
contents what insects were seasonable for bait, and 
was lecturing on the subject to his companions, 
who appeared to listen with infinite deference. I 
have a kind feeling tou'ards all " brothers of the 
angle " ever since I read Izaak Walton. They are 
men, he affirms, of a "mild, sweet, and peaceable 
spirit ; " and my esteem for them has been increased 
since I met with an old Tretysc of fishing with the 
Angle, in which are set forth many of the maxims 
of their inoffensive fraternity. '• Take good hede," 
sayeth this honest little tretyse, " that in going 
about your disportes ye open no man's gates but 
diat ye shet them again. Also ye shall not use this 
forsayd crafti disport for no covetousness to the 
encreasing and sparing of your money only, but 
principally for your solace, and to cause the helth 
of your body and specyally of your soule." * 

I thought that I could perceive in the veteran 
angler before me an exemplification of what I had 

* From this same treatise it would appear that angling is a 
more industrious and devout employment than it is generally 
considered : " For when ye purpose to go on your disportes 
]n fishynge ye will not desyre greatlye many persons with you, 
which mi^t let you of your game. And that ye may serve 
*.jod devoutly in saying effectually your customable prayers. 
t'Lnd thus doying, ye shall eschew and also avoyde many 
Mces, as ydelness, which is principall cause to induce man to 
%jany other vices, as it is right well known." 



412 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

read ; and there was a cheerful contentedness in 
his looks that quite drew me towards him. 1 could 
not but remark the gallant manner in which he 
stumped from one part of the brook to another, 
waving his rod in the air to keep the line from 
dragging on the ground or catching among the 
bushes, and the adroitness with which he would 
throw his fiy to any particular place, sometimes 
skimming it lightly along a little rapid, sometimes 
casting it into one of those dark holes made by a 
twisted root or overhanging bank in which the large 
trout are apt to lurk. In the meanwhile he was 
giving instructions to his two disciples, showing 
them the manner in which they should handle their 
rods, fix their flies, and play them along the surface 
of the stream. The scene brought to my mind the 
instructions of the sage Piscator to his scholar. 
The country around was of that pastoral kind which 
Walton is fond of describing. It was a part of the 
great plain of Cheshire, close by the beautiful vals 
of Gessford, and just where the inferior Welsh hille: 
oegui to swell up from among fresh-smelling mead- 
ows. The day too, like that recorded in his work, 
was mild and sunshiny, with now and then a soft- 
dropping shower that sowed the whole earth with 
diamonds. 

I soon fell into conversation with the old angler, 
and was so much entertained that, under pretext of 
receiving instructions in his art, I kept company 
with him almost the whole day, wandering along 
the banks of the stream and listening to his talk. 
He was very communicative, having all the easy 
garrulity of cheerful old a;^;e, and I fancy was a 
little flattered by having an opportunity of displa}- 



THE ANGLER. 413 

ing his piscatory lore, for who does not like now 
and then to play the sage ? 

He had been much of a rambler in his day, and 
had passed some years of his youth in America, 
particularly in Savannah, where he had entered into 
trade and had been ruined by the indiscretion of a 
partner. He had afterwards experienced many 
ups and downs in life until he got into the navy, 
where his leg was carried away by a cannon-ball 
at the battle of Camperdown. I'his was the only 
stroke of real good-fortune he had ever experienced, 
for it got him a pension, which, ^together with some 
small paternal property, brought him in a revenue 
of nearly forty pounds. On this he retired to his 
native village, where he lived quietly and indepen- 
dently, and devoted the remainder of his life to the 
" noble art of angling." 

1 found that he had read Izaak Walton atten- 
tively, and he seemed to have imbibed all his sim- 
ple frankness and prevalent good-humor. Though 
he had been sorely buffeted about the world, he 
was satisfied that the world, in itself, was good and 
beautiful. Though he had been as roughly used 
in different countries as a poor sheep that is ffeeced 
by every hedge and thicket, yet he spoke of every 
nation with candor and kindness, appearing to look 
only on the good side of things ; and, above all, 
he was almost the only man I had ever met with 
who had been an unfortunate adventurer in America 
and had honesty and magnanimity enough to take 
the fault to his own door, and not to curse the 
country. The lad that was receiving his instruc- 
tions, 1 learnt, was the son and heir-apparent of a 
fat old widow who kept the village inn, and of 



414 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

course a youth of some expectation, and much 
courted by the idle gentleman-Uke personages of the 
place. In taking him under his care, therefore, 
the old man had probably an eye to a privileged 
corner in the tap-room and an occasional cup of 
cheerful ale free of expense. 

There is certainly something in angling — if we 
could forget, which anglers are apt to do, the cruel- 
ties and tortures inflicted on worms and insects — 
that tends to produce a gentleness of spirit and a 
pure serenity of mind. As the English are metho- 
dical even in their recreations, and are the most 
scientific of sportsmen, it has been reduced among 
them to perfect rule and system. Indeed, it is an 
amusement peculiarly adapted to the mild and 
highly-cultivated scenery of England, where every 
roughness has been softened away from the land- 
scape. It is delightful to saunter along those 
limpid streams which wander, like veins of. silver, 
through the bosom of this beautiful country, lead- 
ing one through a diversity of small home scenery 
— sometim.es winding through ornamented grounds ; 
sometimes brimming along through rich pasturage, 
where the fresh green is mingled with sweet-smell- 
ing flowers ; sometimes venturing in sight of vil- 
lages and hamlets, and then running capriciously 
away into shady retirements. The sweetness and 
serenity of Nature and the quiet watchfulness of 
the sport gradually bring on pleasant fits of mus- 
ing, which are now and then agreeably interrupted 
by the song of a bird, the distant whistle of the 
peasant, or perhaps the vagary of some fish leap- 
ing out of the still water and skimming transiently 
about its glassy surface. " When I would beget 



THE ANGLER. 415 

content," says Izaak Walton, " and increase confi- 
dence in the power and wisdom and providence of 
AlmiglUy God, I will walk the meadows by some 
gliding stream, and there contemplate the lilies 
that take no care, and those very many other little 
living creatures that are not only created, but fed 
(man knows not how) by the goodness of the God 
of Nature, and therefore trust in Him." 

I cannot forbear to give another quotation from 
one of those ancient cliampions of angling which 
breathes the same innocent and happy spirit : 

Let me live harmlessly, and near the brink 4 

Of Trent or Avon have a dwelling-place : 

Where I may see my quill, or cork, down sink 
With eager bite of Pike, or Bleak, or Dace ; 

And on the world and my Creator think : 

Whilst some men strive ill-gotten goods t' embrace : 

And others spend their time in base excess 

Of wine, or worse, in war or wantonness. 

Let t*lieni that will, these pastimes still pursue, 
And on such pleasing fancies feed their fill; 

So I the fields and meadows green may view, 
And daily by fresh rivers walk at will, 

Among the daisies and the violets blue. 
Red hyacinth and yellow daffodil.* 

On parting with the old angler I inquired after 
ills place of abode, and, happening to be in the 
neighborhood of the village a few evenings after- 
wards, I had the curiosity to seek him out. I found 
him living in a small cottage containing only one 
room, but a perfect curiosity in its method and 
■arrangement. It was on the skirts of the village, 
on a green bank a little back from the road, with a 
small garden in front stocked with kitchen herbs 

* J. Davors. 



41 6 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

and adorned with a few flowers. The whole front 
of the cottage was overrun with a honeysuckle. On 
the top was a ship for a weathercock. The interior 
was fitted up in a truly nautical style, his ideas of 
comfort and convenience having been acquired 
on the berth-deck of a man-of-war. A hammock 
was slung from the ceiling which in the daytime was 
lashed up so as to take but little room. From the 
centre of the chamber hung a model of a ship, of 
his own workmanship. Two or three ciiairs, a 
table, and a large sea-chest formed the principal 
movables. About the wall were stuck up naval 
ballads, such as " Admiral Hosier's Ghost," "' All in 
the Downs," and " Tom Bowling," intermingled 
with pictures of sea-fights, among which the battle 
of Camperdown held a distinguished place. The 
mantelpiece was decorated with sea-shells, over 
which hung a quadrant, flanked by two wood-cuts of 
most bitter-looking naval commanders. His.imple- 
ments for angling were carefully disposed on nails 
and hooks about the room. On a shelf was arranged 
his library, containing a work on angling, much 
worn, a Bible covered with canvas, an odd volume 
or two of voyages, a nautical almanac, and a book 
of songs. 

His family consisted of a large black cat with 
one eye, and a parrot which he had caught and 
tamed and educated himself in the course of one 
of his voyages, and which uttered a variety of sea- 
phrases with the hoarse brattling tone of a veteran 
boatswain. The establishment reminded me of 
that of the renowned Robinson Crusoe ; it was 
kept in neat order, everything being " stowed away" 
with the regularity of a ship of war ; and he informed 



z.v/. 



417 



me that he " scoured the deck every morning and 
swept it between meals," 

I found him seated on a bench before the door, 
smoking his pipe in the soft evening sunshine. 
His cat was purring soberly on the threshold, and 
his parrot describing some strange evolutions in 
an iron ring that swung in the centre of his cage. He 
had been angling all day, and gave me a history of 
his sport with as much minuteness as a general 
Vv'ould talk over a campaign, being particularly 
animated in relatinir the manner in which he had 
taken a large trout, which had completely tasked 
all his skill and wariness, and which he had sent as 
a trophv tp mine hostess of the inn. 

How comforting it is to see a cheerful and con- 
tented old age, and to behold a poor fellow like 
this, after being tempest-tost through life, safely 
moored in a snug and quiet harbor in the evening 
of his days! His happiness, however, sprung 
from within himscif and w.".s independent of external 
circumstances, icv he had t!iat. inexhaustible good- 
nature which is the most precious gift of Heaven, 
spreading itself like oil o\'er the troubled sea of 
thought, and keeping the mind smooth and equable 
in the roughest weather. 

On inquiring further about him, I learnt that he 
was a universal favorite in the village and the 
oracle of the tap-room, where he delighted 
the rustics with his- songs, and, like Sindbad, 
astonished them with his stories of strange lands 
and ship\vj"ecks and sea-fights. He was much 
noticed too by gentlemen sportsmen of the neighbor- 
hood, had taught several of them the art of angling, 
and was a privileged visitor to their kitchens. The 
27 



41 8 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

whole tenor of his life was quiet and inoffensive, 
being principally passed about the neighboring 
streams when the weather and season were favor- 
able ; and at other times he employed himself at 
home, preparing his fishing-tackle for the next 
campaign or manufacturing rods, nets, and flies for 
his patrons and pupils among the gentry. 

He was a regular attendant at church on Sun- 
days, though he generally fell asleep during the 
sermon. He had made it his particular request 
that when he died he should be buried in a green 
spot which he could see from his seat in church, 
and which he had mai;ked out ever since he was a 
boy, and had thought of when far from home on 
the raging sea in danger of being food for the 
fishes : it was the spot where his father and mother 
had been buried. 

I have done, for I fear that my reader is growing 
weary, but I could not refrain from drawing the 
picture of this worthy " brother of the angle," who 
has made me more than ever in love with the 
theory, though I fear I shall never be adroit in the 
practice, of his art ; and I will conclude this ram- 
bling sketch in the words of honest Izaak Walton, 
by craving the blessing of St. Peter's Master upon 
my reader, " and upon all that are true lovers of 
virtue, and dare trust in His providence, and be 
quiet, and go a-angling." 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW- 



419 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 

(found among the papers of the late diedrich 
knickerbocker.) 

A pleasing land of drowsy-head it was, 

Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye, 

And of gay castles in the clouds that pays, 
For ever flushing round a summer sky. 

Castle of Indolence. 

In the bosom of one of those spacious coves 
which indent the eastern shore of the Hudson, at 
that broad expansion of the river denominated by 
the ancient Dutch navigators the Tappan Zee, and 
where they always prudently shortened sail and im- 
plored the protection of St. Nicholas when they 
crossed, there lies a small market-town or rural 
port which by some is called Greensburg, but which 
is more generally and properly known by the 
name of Tarry Town. This name was given, we are 
told, in former days by the good housewives of the 
adjacent country from the inveterate propensity of 
their husbands to linger about the village tavern on 
market days. Be that as it may, I do not vouch 
for the fact, but merely advert to it for the sake of 
being precise and authentic. Not far from this 
village, perhaps about two miles, there is a little 
valley, or rather lap of land, among high hills, 
which is one of the quietest places in the whole 
world. A small brook glides through it, with just 
murmur enough to lull one to repose, and the occa- 



42 o THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

sional whistle of a quail or tapping of a woodpecker 
is almost the only sound tiiat ever breaks in upon 
the uniform tranquillity. 

I recollect that when a stripling my first exploit 
in squirrel-shooting was in a grove of tall walnut 
trees that shades one side of the valley. I had 
wandered into it at noontime, when all Nature is 
peculiarly quiet, and was startled h} the roar of 
my own gun as it broke the Sabbath stillness 
around and was prolonged and reverberated by the 
angry echoes. If ever I should wish for a retreat 
whither I might steal from the world and its dis- 
tractions and dream quietly away the remnant of a 
troubled life, I know of none more promising than 
this little valley. 

From the listless repose of the place and the 
peculiar character of its inhabitants, v/ho are de- 
scendants from the original Dutch settlers, this 
sequestered glen has long been known by the name 
of Sleepy Hollow, and its rustic lads are called 
the Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout all the neigh- 
boring country. A drowsy, dreamy influence seems 
to hang over the land and to pervade the very 
atmosphere. Some say that the place was be- 
witched by a High German doctor during the early 
days of the settlement ; others, tiiat an old Indian 
chief, the prophet or wizard of his tribe, held his 
powwows there before the country was discovered 
by Master Hendrick Hudson. Certain it is, the 
place still continues under the sway of some witch- 
ing power that holds a spell over the minds of the 
good people, causing them to walk in a continual 
reverie. They are given to all kinds of marvellous 
beliefs^ are subject to trances and visions, and fre- 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 421 

quently see strange sights and hear music and 
voices in the air. The wliole neighborhood abounds 
with local tales, haunted spots, and twilight super- 
stitions ; stars shoot and meteors glare oftener 
across the valley than in any other part of the 
country, and the nightmare, with her whole nine- 
fold, seems to make it the favorite scene of her 
gambols. 

The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this 
enchanted region, and seems to be commander-in- 
chief of all the powers of the air, is the apparition 
of a figure on horseback without a head. It is said 
by some to be the ghost of a Hessian trooper 
whose head had been carried away by a cannon- 
ball in some nameless battle during the Revolu- 
tionary War, and who is ever and anon seen by the 
country-folk hurrying along in the gloom of night 
as if on the wings of the wind. His haunts are 
not confined to the valley, but extend at times to 
the adjacent roads, and especially to the vicinity of 
a church at no great distance. Indeed, certain of 
the most authentic historians of those parts, who 
have been careful in collecting and collating the 
floating facts concerning this spectre, allege that 
the body of the trooper, having been buried in the 
churchyard, the ghost rides forth to the scene of 
battle in nightly quest of his head, and that the 
rushing speed with which he sometimes passes 
along the Hollow, like a midnight blast, is owing to 
his being belated and in a hurry to get back to the 
churchyard before daybreak. 

Such is the general purport of this legendary 
superstition, which has furnished materials for 
many a wild story in that region of shadows ; and 



422 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

the spectre is known at all the country firesides by 
the name of the Headless Horseman of Sleepy 
Hollow. 

It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I 
have mentioned is not confined to the native inhab- 
itants of the valley, but is unconsciously imbibed 
by every one who resides there for a time. How- 
ever wide awake they may have been before they 
entered that sleepy region, they are sure in a little 
time to inhale the witching influence of the air and 
begin to grow imaginative — to dream dreams and 
see apparitions. 

I mention this peaceful spot with all possible 
laud, for it is in such little retired Dutch valleys, 
found here and there embosomed in the great 
State of New York, that population, manners, and 
customs remain fixed, while the great torrent of 
migration and improvement, which is making such 
incessant changes in other parts of this restless 
country, sweeps by them unobserved. They are 
like those little nooks of still water which border a 
rapid stream where we may see the straw and bub- 
ble riding quietly at anchor or slowly revolving in 
their mimic harbor, undisturbed by the rush of the 
passing current. Though many years have elapsed 
since I trod the drowsy shades of Sleepy Hollow, 
yet I question whether I should not still find the 
same trees and the same families vegetating in its 
sheltered bosom. 

In this by-place of Nature there abode, in a re- 
mote period of American history — that is to say, 
some thirty years since — a worthy wight of the 
name of Ichabod Crane, who sojourned, or, as he 
expressed it, " tarried," in Sleepy Hollow for the 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 423 

purpose of instructing the children of the vicinity. 
He was a native of Connecticut, a State which sup- 
plies the Union with pioneers for the mind as well 
as for the forest, and sends forth yearly its legions 
of frontier woodmen and country schoolmasters. 
The cognomen of Crane was not inapplicable #0 
his person. He was tall, but exceedingly lank, with 
narrow shoulders, long arms and legs, hands that 
dangled a mile out of his sleeves, feet that might 
have served for shovels, and his whole frame most 
loosely hung together. His head was small, and 
flat at top, with huge ears, large green glassy eyes, 
and a long snip nose, so that it looked like a weather- 
cock perched upon his spindle neck to tell which 
way the wind blew. To see him striding along the 
profile of a hill on a windy day, with his clothes 
bagging and fluttering about him, one might have 
mistaken him for the genius of Famine descending 
upon the earth or some scarecrow eloped from a 
cornfield. 

His school-house was a low building of one large 
room, rudely constructed of logs, the windows partly 
glazed and partly patched with leaves of old copy- 
books. It was most ingeniously secured at vacant 
hours by a withe twisted in the handle of the door 
and stakes set against the window-shutters, so 
that, though a thief might get in with perfect ease, 
he would find some embarrassment in getting out 
— an idea most probably borrowed by the architect, 
Yost Van Houten, from the mystery of an eel-pot. 
The school-house stood in a rather lonely but 
pleasant situation, just at the foot of a woody hill, 
with a brook runnins: close bv and a formidable birch 
tree growing at one end of it. From hence the lew 



424 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 



murmur of his pupils' voices, conning over their 
lessons, might be heard in a drowsy summer's day- 
like the hum of a bee-hive, interrupted now and 
then by the authoritative voice of the master in the» 
tone of menace or command, or, peradventure, by 
t#ie appalling sound of the birch as he urged some 
tardy loiterer along the flowery path of knowledge. 
Truth to say, he was a conscientious man, and ever 
bore in mind the golden maxim, " Spare the rod and 
spoil the child." Ichabod Crane's scholars cer- 
tainly were not spoiled. 

I would not have it imagined, however, that he 
"was one of those cruel potentates of the school 
"who joy in the smart of their subjects ; on the con- 
trary, he administered justice with discrimination 
rather than severity, taking the burden off the backs 
of the w^ak and laying it on those of the strong. 
Your mere puny stripling, that winced at the least 
flourish of the rod, was passed by with indulgence ; 
but the claims of justice were satisfied by inflicting 
a double portion on some little tough, wrong-headed 
broad-skirted Dutch urchin, who sulked and swelled 
and grew dogged and sullen beneath the birch. All 
this he called " doing his duty by their parents ; " 
and he never inflicted a chastisement without 
following it by the assurance, so consolatory to the 
smarting urchin, that " he would remember it and 
thank him for it the longest day he had to live." 

When school-hours were over he was even the 
companion and playmate of the larger boys, and on 
holiday afternoons would convoy some of the 
smaller ones home who happened to have pretty 
sisters or good housewives for mothers noted for 
the comforts of the cupboard. Indeed it behooved 



THE LEGEND OE SLEEPY HOLLOW. 425 

him to keep on good terms with his pupils. The 
revenue arising from his school was small, and would 
have been scarcely sufficient to furnish him with 
daily bread, for he was a huge feeder, and, though 
lank, had the dilating powers of an anaconda ; but 
to help out his maintenance he was, according to 
country custom in those parts, boarded and lodged 
at the houses of the farmers whose children he 
instructed. With these he lived successively a 
week at a time, thus going the rounds of the neigh- 
borhood with all his worldly effects tied up in a 
cotton handkerchief. 

That all this might not be too onerous on the 
purses of his rustic patrons, who are apt to con- 
sider the costs of schooling a grievous burden and 
schoolmasters as mere drones, he had various ways 
of rendering himself both useful and agreeable. 
He assisted the farmers occasionally in the lighter 
labors of their farms, helped to make hay, mended 
the fences, took the horses to water, drove the 
cows from pasture, and cut wood for the winter 
fire. He laid aside, too, all the dominant dignity 
and absolute sway with which he lorded it in his 
little empire, the school, and became wonderfully 
gentle and inLrratiatinc;. He found favor in the 
eyes of the mothers by petting the children, partic- 
ularly the youngest ; and like the lion bold, which 
whilom so magnanimously the lamb did hold, he 
would sit with a child on one knee and rock a 
cradle with his foot' for whole hours together. 

In addition to his other vocations, he was the 
singing-master of the neighborhood and picked up 
many bright shillings by instructing the young folks 
in psalmody. It was a matter of no little vanity to 



426 THE SKETCH-BOOK, 

him on Sundays to take his station in front of the 
churcli-gallery with a band of chosen singers, where, 
in his own mind, lie completely carried away the 
palm from the parson. Certain it is, his voice re- 
sounded far above all the rest of the congregation, 
and there are peculiar quavers still to be heard in 
that church, and which may even be heard half a 
mile off, quite to the opposite side of the mill-pond 
on a still Sunday morning, which are said to be 
legitimately descended from the nose of Ichabod 
Crane. Thus, by divers little makeshifts in that 
ingenious way which is commonly denominated 
" by hook and by crook," the w^orthy pedagogue 
got on tolerably enough, and was thought, by all 
who understood nothing of the labor of headwork, 
to have a wonderfully easy life of it. 

The schoolmaster is generally a man of some 
importance in the female circle of a rural neighbor- 
hood, being considered a kind of idle, gentleman- 
like personage of vastly superior taste and accom- 
plishments to the rough country swains, and, indeed, 
inferior in learning only to the parson. His ap- 
pearance, therefore, is apt to occasion some little 
stir at the tea-table of a farmhouse and the addition 
of a supernumerary dish of cakes or sweetmeats, 
or, peradventure, the parade of a silver tea-pot. 
Our man of letters, therefore, was peculiarly happy 
in the smiles of all the country damsels. How he 
would figure among them in the churchyard be- 
tween services on Sundays, gathering grapes for 
them from the wild vines that overrun the surround- 
ing trees ; reciting for their amusement all the 
epitaphs on the tombstones ; or sauntering, with a 
whole bevy of them, along the banks of the adjacent 



THE LEGEXD OE SLEEPY HOLLOW. 427 

mill-pond, while the more bashful ccuntiy bump- 
kins hung sheepishly back, envying his superior 
elegance and address. 

From his half-itinerant life, also, he was a kind 
of travelling gazette, carrying the whole budget of 
local gossip from house to house, so that his appear- 
ance was always greeted with satisfaction. He 
was, moreover, esteemed by the women as a man 
of great erudition, for he had read several books 
quite through, and was a perfect master of Cotton 
Mather's History of New England Witchcraft, in 
which, by the way, he most firmly and potently be- 
lieved. 

He was, in fact, an odd mixture of small shrewd- 
ness and simple credulity. His appetite for the 
marvellous and his powers of digesting it were 
equally extraordinary, and both had been increased 
by his residence in this spellbound region. No 
tale was too gross or monstrous for his capacious 
swallow. It was often his delight, after his school 
was dismissed in the afternoon, to stretch himself 
on the rich bed of clover bordering the little brook 
that whimpered by his school-house, and there con 
over old Mather's direful tales until the gathering 
dusk of the evening made the printed page a mere 
mist before his eyes. Then, as he wended his way 
by swamp and stream and awful woodland to the 
farmhouse where he happened to be quartered, 
every sound of Nature at that witching hour flut- 
tered his excited imagination — the moan of the 
whip-poor-will* from the hillside ; the boding cry 

* The whip-poor-will is a bird which is only heard at night. 
It receives its name from its note, which is thought to re- 
semble those words. 



4.28, HIE SKETCH-BOOK. 

of the tree-toad, that harbinger of storm ; the dreary 
hooting of the screech-owl, or the sudden rustling 
in the thicket of birds frightened from their roost. 
The fire-flies, too, which sparkled most vividly in 
the darkest places, now and then startled him as 
one of uncommon brightness would stream across 
his path ; and if, by chance, a huge blockhead of a 
beetle came winging his blundering flight against 
him, the poor varlet was ready to give up the 
ghost, with the idea that he was struck with a 
witch's token. His only resource on such occa- 
sions, either to drown thought or drive away evil 
spirits, was to sing psalm tunes ; and the good 
people of Sleepy Hollow, as they sat by their doors 
of an evening, were often filled with awe at hearmg 
his nasal melody, " in linked sweetness long drawn 
out," floating from the distant hill or along the 
dusky road. 

Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was to 
pass long winter evenings with the old Dutcli 
wives as they sat spinning by the fire, with a row 
of apples roasting and spluttering along the hearth, 
and listen to their marvellous tales of ghosts and 
goblins, and haunted fields, and haunted brooks, 
and haunted bridges, and haunted houses, and par- 
ticularly of the headless horseman, or Galloping 
Hessian of the Hollow, as they sometimes called 
him. He would delight them equally by his anec- 
dotes of witchcraft and of the direful omens and 
portentous sights and sounds in the air which 
prevailed in the earlier times of Connecticut, and 
would frighten them woefully with speculations 
upon comets and shooting stars, and with the 
alarming fact that the world did absolutely turn 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY FIOLLOIV. 429 

round and that they were half the time topsy- 
tur\y. 

But if there was a pleasure in all this while 
snugly cuddling in the chimney-corner of a chamber 
that was ail of a ruddy glow from the crackling 
wood-iire, and where, of course, no spectre dared to 
show its face, it was dearly. purchased by the terrors 
of his subsequent walk homewards. \Vhat fearful 
shapes and shadows beset his path amidst the dim 
and ghastly glare of a snowy night ! With what 
wistful look did he eye every trembling ray of light 
streaming across the waste fields from some distant 
window! How often was he appalled by some 
shrub covered with snow, which, like a sheeted 
spectre, beset his very path ! How often did he 
shrink with curdling awe at the sound of his own 
steps on the frosty crust beneath his feet, and 
dread to look over his shoulder, lest he should be- 
hold some uncouth being tramping close behind 
him ! And how often was he thrown into complete 
dismay Dy some rushing blast howling among the 
trees, in the idea that it w^as the Galloping Hessian 
on one of his nightly scourings ! 

All these, however, were mere terrors of the 
night, phantoms of the mind that walk in darkness ; 
and though he had seen many spectres in his time, 
and been more than once beset by Satan in divers 
shapes in his lonely perambulations, yet daylight 
put an end to all these evils ; and he would have 
passed a pleasant life of it, in despite of the devil 
and all his works, if his path had not been crossed 
by a being that causes more perplexity to mortal 
man than ghosts, goblins, and the Whole race of 
witches put together, and that was — a wom 



430 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 



Among the musical disciples who assembled one 
evening in each week to receive his instructions in 
psalmody was Katrina Van Tassel, the daughter 
and only child of a substantial Dutch farmer. She 
was a blooming lass of fresh eighteen, plump as a 
partridge, ripe and melting and rosy-cheeked as 
one of her father's peaches, and universally famed, 
not merely for her beauty, but her vast expecta- 
tions. She was withal a little of a coquette, as 
might be perceived even in her dress, which was a 
mixture of ancient and modern fashions, as most 
suited to set off her charms. She wore the orna- 
ments of pure yellow gold which her great-great- 
grandmother had brought over from Saarclam, the 
tempting stomacher of the olden time, and withal 
a provokingly short petticoat to display the prettiest 
foot and ankle in the country round. 

Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart to- 
wards the sex, and it is not to be wondered at that 
so tempting a morsel soon found favor in his eyes, 
more especially after he had visited her in her 
paternal mansion. Old Baltus Van Tassel was a 
perfect picture of a thriving, contented, liberal- 
hearted farmer. He seldom, it is true, sent either 
his eyes or his thoughts beyond the boundaries of 
his own farm, but within those everything was 
snug, happ)', and well-conditioned. He was satis- 
fied with his wealth but not proud of it, and piqued 
himself upon the hearty abundance, rather than 
the style, in which he lived. His stronghold was 
situated on the banks of the Hudson, in one of 
those green, sheltered, fertile nooks in which the 
Dutch farmers are so fond of nestling. A great 
elm tree spread its broad branches over it, at the 



THE LEG El \rD OE SL EEP Y HOLE O W. 43 1 

foot of which bubbled up a spring of the softest 
and sweetest water in a little well formed of a barrel, 
and then stole sparkling away through the grass to 
a neighboring brook that bubbled along among 
alders and dwarf willows. Hard by the farmhouse 
was a vast barn, that might have served for a 
church, every window and crevice of which seemed 
bursting forth with the treasures of the farm ; the 
flail was busily resounding within it from morn- 
ing to night ; swallows and martins skimmed 
twittering about the eaves ; and rows of pigeons, 
some with one eye turned up, as if watching the 
weather, some with their heads under their wings 
or buried in their bosoms, and others, swelling, and 
cooing, and bowing about their dames, w^ere enjoy- 
ing the sunshine on the roof. Sleek, unwieldy 
porkers were grunting in the repose and abundance 
of their pens, whence sallied forth, now and then, 
troops of sucking pigs as if to snuff the air. A 
stately squadron of snowy geese were riding in an 
adjoining pond, convoying whole fleets of ducks ; 
regiments of turkeys were gobbling through the 
farmyard, and guinea-fowls fretting about it, like 
ill-tempered housewives, with their peevish, dis- 
contented cry. Before the barn-door strutted the 
gallant cock, that pattern of a husband, a warrior, 
and a fine gentleman, clapping his burnished wings 
and crowing in the pride and gladness of his heart 
— sometimes tearing up the earth with his feet, and 
then generously calling his ever-hungry family of 
wives and children to enjoy the rich morsel which 
he had discovered. 

The pedagogue's mouth watered as he looked 
upon his sumptuous promise of luxurious winter 



Ay 



THE SA E TCII-B OOK, 



fare. In his devouring mind's eye he pictured to 
himself every roasting-pig running about with a 
pudding in his belly and an apple in his mouth ; 
the pigeons were snugly put to bed in a comfort- 
able pie and tucked in with a coverlet of crust ; the 
geese were swimming in their own gravy ; and 
the ducks pairing cosily in dishes, like snug married 
couples, with a decent competency of onion sauce. 
In the porkers he saw carved out the future sleek 
side of bacon and juicy relishing ham ; not a turkey 
but he beheld daintily trussed up, with its gizzard 
under its wing, and, peradventure, a necklace of 
savory sausages ; and even bright Chanticleer him- 
self lay sprawling on his back in a side-dish, with 
uplifted claws, as if craving that quarter which his 
chivalrous spirit disdained to ask while living. 

As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and 
as he rolled his great green eyes over the fat 
meadow'-lands, the rich fields of wheat, of rye, of 
buckwdieat, and Indian corn, and the orchards bur- 
dened with ruddv fruit, which surrounded the warm 
tenement of Van Tassel, nis heart yearned after the 
damsel who was to inherit these domains, and his 
imagination expanded with the idea how they might 
be readily turned into cash and the money invested 
in immense tracts of wild land and shingle palaces 
in the wilderness. Nay, his busy fancy already 
realized his hopes, and presented to him the 
blooming Katrina, with a whole family of children, 
mounted on the top of a wagon loaded with house- 
hold trumpery, with pots and kettles dangling 
beneath, and he beheld himself bestriding a pacing 
mare, with a colt at her heels, setting out for 
Kentucky, Tennessee, or the Lord knows where. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 433 

When he entered the house tlie conquest of his 
heart was complete. It was one of those spacious 
farmhouses witli high-ridged but lowly-sloping 
roofs, built in the style handed down from the first 
Dutch settlers, the low projecting eaves forming 
a piazza along the front capable of being closed 
up in bad weather. Under this were hung flails, 
harness, various utensils of husbandry, and nets 
for fishing in the neighboring river. Benches 
Vv'ere built along the sides for summer use, and a 
great spinning-wheel at one end and a churn at the 
other showed the various uses to which this impor- 
tant porch might be devoted. From this piazza the 
wondering Ichabod entered the hall, which formed 
the centre of the mansion and the place of usual 
residence. Here rows of resplendent pewter, 
ranged on a long dresser, dazzled his eyes. In one 
corner stood a huge bag of wool ready to be spun ; 
in another a quantity of linse3^-woolsey just from 
the loom ; ears of Indian corn and strings of dried 
apples and peaches hung in gay festoons along the 
walls, mingled with the gaud of red peppers ; and 
a door left ajar gave him a peep into the best 
parlor, where the claw-footed chairs and dark 
mahogany tables shone like mirrors ; andirons, 
with their accompanying shovel and tongs, glistened 
from their covert of asparagus tops ; mock-oranges 
and conch-shells decorated the mantelpiece ; strings 
of various-colored birds' eggs were suspended 
above it ; a great ostrish ^g'g was hung from the 
centre of the room, and a corner cupboard, know- 
ingly left open, displayed immense treasures of old 
silver and well-mended china. 

From the moment Ichabod laid his eyes upon 
28 



434 ^^/^ SKETCH-BOOK. 

these regions of delight the peace of his mind was 
at an end, and his only study was how to gain ths 
affections of the peerless daughter of Van Tassel. 
In this enterprise, however, he had more real diffi- 
culties than generally fell to the lot of a knight- 
errant of yore, who seldom had anything but giants, 
enchanters, fiery dragons, and such-like easily-con- 
quered adversaries to contend with, and had to 
make his w^iy merely through gates of iron and 
brass and walls of adamant to the castle keep, 
where the lady of his heart was confined ; all which 
he achieved as easily as a man would carve his 
way to the centre of a Christmas pie, and then the 
lady gave him her hand as a matter of course. 
Ichabod, on the contrary, had to win his way to 
the heart of a country coquette beset with a laby- 
rinth of whims and caprices, which were forever 
presenting new difficulties and impediments, and 
he had to encounter a host of fearful adversaries of 
real fiesh and blood, the numerous rustic admirers 
who beset every portal to her heart, keeping a 
watchful and angry eye upon each other, but ready 
to fly out in the common cause against any new 
competitor. 

Among these the most formidable was a burly, 
roaring, roistering blade of the name of Abraham — 
or, according to the Dutch abbreviation, Brom — 
Van Brunt, the hero of the country round, which 
rang with his feats of strength and hardihood. He 
was broad-shouldered and double-jointed, with 
short curly black hair and a bluff but not unpleasant 
countenance, having a mingled air of fun and arro- 
gance. From his Herculean frame and great poW' 
ers of limb, he had received the nickname of 



THE LEGEND OE SLEEPY HOLLOW. 435 

Brom Bones, by which he was universally known. 
He was famed for great knowledge and skill in 
horsemanship, being as dexterous on horseback as 
a Tartar. He was foremost at all races and cock- 
fights, and, with the ascendency which bodily 
strength acquires in rustic life, was the umpire in 
all disputes, setting his hat on one side and giving 
his decisions with an air and tone admitting of no 
gainsay or appeal. He was always ready for either 
a fight or a frolic, but had more mischief than ill- 
will in his composition ; and with all his overbear- 
ing roughness there was a strong dash of waggish 
good-humor a,t bottom. He had three or four boon 
companions who regarded him as their model, and 
at the head of whom he scoured the countrv, attend- 
ing every scene of feud or merriment for miles 
around. In cold weather he was distinguished by 
a fur cap surmounted with a flaunting fox's tail ; 
and when the folks at a country gathering descried 
this well-known crest at a distance, whisking about 
among a squad of hard riders, they always stood by 
for a squall. Sometimes his crew would be heard 
dashing along past the farm-houses at midnight with 
whoop and halloo, like a troop of Don Cossacks, 
and the old dames, startled out of their sleep, 
would listen for a moment till the hurry-scurry had 
clattered by, and then exclaim, " Ay, there goes 
Brom Bones and his 2:anG: 1 " The neiMibors look- 
ed upon him with a mixture of awe, admiration, 
and good-will, and when any madcap prank or 
rustic brawl occurred in the vicinity alwa3''s shook 
their heads and warranted Brom Bones was at the 
bottom of it. 

This rantipole hero had for some time singled 



43 o THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

out the blooming Katrina for the object of his 
uncouth gallantries, and, though his amorous toy- 
ings were something like the gentle caresses and 
endearments of a bear, yet it was whispered that 
she did not altogether discourage his hopes. 
Certain it is, his advances were signals for rival 
candidates to retire who felt no inclination to cross 
a line in his amours; insomuch, that when his 
horse was seen tied to Van Tassel's paling on a 
Sunday night, a sure sign that his master was 
courting — or, as it is termed, " sparking " — within, 
all other suitors passed by in despair and carried 
the war into other quarters. 

Such was the formidable rival with whom Ichabod 
Crane had to contend, and, considering all things, 
a stouter man than he would have shrunk from the 
competition and a wiser man would have despaired. 
He had, however, a happy mixture of pliability and 
perseverance in his nature ; he was in form and 
spirit like a supple jack — yielding, but tough ; 
though he bent, he never broke ; and though he 
bowed beneath the slightest pressure, yet the 
moment it was away, jerk ! he was as erect and 
carried his head as high as ever. 

To have taken the held openly against his rival 
would have been in ad n ess ; for he was not a man 
to be thwarted in his amours, any more than that 
stonny lovcr^ Achilles. Ichabod, therefore, made 
his advances in a quiet and gently-insinuating 
manner. Under cover of his character of singing- 
master he made frequent visits at the farm-house ; 
not that he had anything to apprehend from the 
meddlesome inteiference of parents, which is sy> 
often a stumbling-blocV in the path of lovers. Ba!:A 



THE LEGEND OE SLEEPY FIOLLOIV. ^37 

Van Tassel was an easy, indulgent soul ; ho loved 
his daughter better even than his pipe, anti, iike a 
reasonable man and an excellent father, let her 
have her way in everything. His notable little 
wife, too, had enough to do to attend to her house- 
keeping and manage her poultry ; for, as she sagely 
observed, ducks and geese are foolish things and 
must be looked after, but girls can take care of 
themselves. Thus while the busy dame bustled 
about the house or plied her spinning-wheel at one 
end of the piazza, honest Bait would sit smoking 
his evening pipe at the other, watching the achieve- 
ments of a little wooden warrior who, armed with a 
sword in each hand, was most valiantly fighting 
the wind on the pinnacle of the barn. In the 
mean tiuie, Icliabod would carry on his suit with 
the daughter by the side of the spring under the 
great elm or sauntering along in the twilight, that 
hour so favorable to the lover's eloquence. 

I profess not to know how women's hearts are 
wooed and won. To me they have always been 
matters of riddle and admiration. Some seem to 
have but one vulnerable point or door of access, 
while others have a thousand avenues and may be 
captured in a thousand different ways. It is a 
great triumph of skill to gain the former, but a 
still greater proof of generalship to maintain pos- 
session of the latter, for a man must battle for his 
fortress at every door and window. He who v/ins 
a thousand common hearts is therefore entitled to 
some renown, but he who keeps undisputed sway 
over the heart of a coquette is indeed a iiero. 
Certain it is, tbisvv'as not the case with the redoubt- 
able Brom Bones ; and from the moment Ichabod 



438 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

Crane made his advances the interests of the formei:* 
evidently decUned ; his horse was no longer seen tied 
at the paling on Sunday nights, and a deadly feud 
gradually arose between him and the preceptor of 
Sleepy Hollow. 

-Brom, who had a degee of rough chivalry in his 
nature, would fain have carried matters to open 
warfare, and have settled their pretensions to the 
lady according to the mode of those most concise 
and simple reasoners, the knights-errant of yore — 
by single combat ; but Ichabod was too conscious 
of the superior might of his adversary to enter the 
lists against him : he had overheard a boast of 
Bones, that he would " double the schoolmaster 
up and lay him on a shelf of his own school-house ; " 
and he was too wary to give him an opportunity. 
There was something extremely provoking in this 
obstinately pacific system ; it left Brom no alter- 
native but to draw upon the funds of rustic wagger)r 
in his disposition and to play off boorish practical 
jokes upon his rival. Ichabod became the object 
of whimsical persecution to Bones and his gang of 
rough riders. They harried his hitherto peaceful 
domains ; smoked out his singing school by 
stopping up the chimney ; broke into the school- 
house at night, in spite of its formidable fastenings', 
of withe and window stakes, and turned everything 
topsy-turvy ; so that the poor schoolmaster began to 
think all the witches in the country held their 
meetings there. But, what was still more annoy- 
ing, Brom took all opportunities of turning him into 
ridicule in presence of his mistress, and had a. 
scoundrel dosf whom he tau2:ht to whine in the mosV 
ludicrous manner, and introduced as a rival of 
Ichabod's to instruct her in psalmody. 



THE LEGEiVD OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 



439 



In this way matters went on for some time with- 
out producing any material effect on the relative 
situatioji of the contending powers. On a fine 
autumnal afternoon Ichabod, in pensive mood, sat 
entlironed on the lofty stool whence he usually 
watched all the concerns of his little literary realm. 
In his hand he swayed a ferule, that sceptre of 
despotic power ; the birch of justice reposed on three 
nails behind the throne, a constant terror to evil- 
doers ; while on the desk before him mif:,ht be seen 
sundry contraband articles and prohibited weapons 
detected upon the persons of idle urchins, such as 
half-munchgd apples, popguns, whirligigs, fly-cages, 
and Vvliole legions of rampant little paper game- 
cocks. Apparently there had been some appalling 
act of justice recently inflicted, for his scholars were 
all busily intent upon their books or slyly whispering 
behind them with one eye kept upon the master, and 
a kind of buzzins; stillness rei2:ned throu2:hout the 
school-room. It was suddinly interrupted by the 
appearance of a negro in tow-cloth jacket and trow- 
sers, a round crowned fragment of a hat like the cap 
of Mercury, and mounted on the back of a ragged, 
wild, half-broken colt, which he managed with a rope 
^»y way of halter. He cr.me clattering up to the 
school door with an invitation to Ichabod to attend 
a merry-making or " quilting frolic" to be held that 
evening at Mynheer Van Tassel's ; and, having 
delivered his message with that air of importance 
and effort at fine language which a negro is apt to 
display on petty embassies of the kind, he dashed 
over the brook, and was seen scampering away up 
the hollow, full of the importance and hurry of his 
mission. 



440 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet 
school-room. The scholars were hurried through 
their lessons without stopping at trifles ; those who 
were nimble skipped over half with impunity, and 
those who were tardy had a smart application now 
and then in the rear to quicken their speed or help 
them over a tall word. Books were flung aside 
without being put away on the shelves, inkstands 
were overturned, benches thrown clown, and the 
whole school was turned loose an hour before the 
usual time, bursting forth like a legion of young 
imps, yelping and racketing about the green in joy 
at their early emancipation. 

The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra 
half hour at his toilet, brushing and furbishing up 
his best, and indeed onh^ suit of rusty black, and 
arranging his locks by a bit of broken looking-glass 
that hung up in the school-house. That he might 
make his appearance before his mistress in the 
true style of a cavalier, he borrowed a horse from 
the farmer with whom he was domiciliated, a choleric 
old Dutchman of the name of Hans Van Ripper, 
and, thus gallantly mounted, issued forth like a 
knight-errant in quest of adventures. But it is 
meet I should, in the true spirit of romantic story, 
give some account of the looks and equipments of 
my hero and his steed. The animal he bestrode 
was a broken-down plough-horse that had outlived 
almost everything but his viciousness. He was 
gaunt and shagged, with a ewe neck and a head 
like a hammer ; his rusty mane and tail were tan- 
gled and knotted with burrs ; one eye had lost its 
pupil and was glaring and spectral, but the other 
had the gleam of a genuine devil in it. Still, he 



THE LEGEXD OE SLEEPY HOLLOW. 



441 



must have had fire and mettle in his dav, if we~ 
may judge from the name he bore of Gunpowder. 
He had, in fact, been a favorite steed of his 
master's, the choleric Van Ripper, who was a 
furious rider, and had infused, very probabh', some 
of his own spirit into the animal ; for, old and 
broken down as he looked, there was more of the 
lurking devil in him than in any young filly in the 
country. 

Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. 
He rode with short stirrups, which brought his 
knees nearly up to the pommel of the saddle ; his 
sharp elbows stuck out like grasshoppers' ; he 
carried his whip perpendicularly in his hand like a 
sceptre ; and as his horse jogged on the motion of 
his arms was not unlike the flapping of a pair of 
wings. A small wool hat rested on the top of his 
nose, for so his scanty strip of forehead might be 
called, and the skirts of his black coat fluttered out 
almost to his horse's tail. Such was the appearance 
of Ichabod and his steed as they shambled out of 
the gate of Hans Van Ripper, and it was altogether 
such an apparition as is seldom to be met with in. 
broad daylight. 

It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day, the 
sky was clear and serene, and Nature wore that 
rich and golden livery which we always associate 
with the idea of abundance. The forests had put 
on their sober brown and vellow, while some trees 
of the tenderer kind had been nipped by the frosts 
into brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and scarlet. 
Streaming files of wild-ducks began to make their 
appearance high in the air ; the bark of the squirrel 
might be heard from the groves of beech and 



443 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

hickory nuts, and the pensive whistle of the quail 
at intervals from the neighboring stubble-field. 

The small birds were takinsr their farewell ban- 
qucts. In the fulness of their revelry they fluttered, 
chirping and frolickmg, from bush to bush and tree 
to tree, capricious from the very profusion and 
variety around them. There was the honest cock 
robin, the favorite game of stripling sportsmen, with 
its loud querulous note ; and the twittering black- 
birds, flying in sable clouds ; and the golden-winged 
"woodpecker, with his crimson crest, his broad black 
gorget, and splendid plumage ; and the cedar-bird, 
with its red-tipt wings and yeilow-tipt tail and its 
little monteiro cap of feathers ; and the blue jay, 
that noisy coxcomb, in his gay light-blue coat and 
white under-clothes, screaming and chattering, 
bobbing and nodding and bowing, and pretending 
to be on good terms with every songster of the 
grove. 

As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way his eye, 
ever open to every symptom of culinary abundance, 
ranged with delight over the treasures of jolly 
Autumn. On all sides he beheld vast store of 
apples — some hanging in oppressive opulence on 
the trees, some gathered into baskets and barrels 
for the market, others heaped up in rich piles for 
the cider-press. Farther on he beheld great fields 
of Indian corn, with its golden ears peeping from 
their leafy coverts and holding out the promise of 
cakes and hasty pudding ; and the yellow pumpkins 
lying beneath them, turning up their fair round 
bellies to the sun, and giving ample prospects of 
the most luxurious of pies ; and anon he passed the 
fragrant buckwheat-fields, breathing the odor of 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 



443 



tlie bee-hive, and as he beheld them soft anticipa- 
tions stole over his mind of dainty slapjacks, well 
buttered and garnished with honey or treacle by 
the delicate little dimpled hand of Katrina Van 
Tassel. 

Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts 
and " sugared suppositions," he journeyed along 
the sides of a range of hills which look out upon 
some of the goodliest scenes of the mighty Hudson. 
The sun gradually wheeled his broad disk down 
into the west. The wide bosom of the Tappan Zee 
lay motionless and glassy, excepting that here and 
there a gentle undulation waved and prolonged the 
blue shadow of the distant mountain. A few amber 
clouds floated in the sky, without a breath of air to 
move them. The horizon was of a fine golden tint, 
changing gradually into a pure apple green, and 
from that into the deep blue of the mid-heaven. 
A slanting ray lingered on the woody crests of the 
precipices that overhung some parts of the river, 
giving greater depth to the dark-gray and purple of 
their rocky sides. A sloop was loitering in the dis- 
tance, dropping slowly down with the tide, her sail 
hanging uselessly against the mast, and as the re- 
flection of the sky gleamed along the still water it 
seemed as if the vessel was suspended in the air. 

It was toward evening that Ichabod arrived at the 
castle of the Heer Van Tassel, which he found 
thronged with the pride and flower of the adjacent 
country — old farmers, a spare leathern-faced race, 
in homespun coats and breeches, blue stockings, 
huge shoes, and magnificent pewter buckles ; their 
brisk withered little dames, in close crimped caps, 
long-waisted shortgowns, homespun petticoats, with 



4.14 THE SA'ETC//-nOOA'. 

scissors and pincushions and gay calico pockets 
hanging on the outside ; buxom lasses, almost as 
antiquated as their mothers, excepting where a 
straw hat, a fine ribbon, or perhaps a white frock, 
gave symptoms of city \nnovation ; the sons, in 
short square-skirted coats with rows of stupendous 
brass buttons, and their hair generally queued in the 
fashion of the times, especially if they could procure 
an eel-skin for the purpose, it being esteemed 
ihroughout the country as a potent nourisher and 
strengthener of the hair. 

Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the scene, 
having come to the gathering on his favorite steed 
Daredevil — a creature, like himself full of metal 
and mischief, and which no one but himself could 
manage. He was, in fact, noted for preferring 
vicious animals, given to all kinds of tricks, which 
kept the rider in constant risk of his neck, for he 
held a tractable, well-broken horse as unworthy of 
a lad of spirit. 

Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world of 
charms that burst upon the enraptured gaze of my 
hero as he entered the state parlor of Van Tassel's 
mansion. Not those of the bevy of buxom lasses 
with their luxurious display of red and white, but 
the ample charms of a genuine Dutch country tea- 
table in the sumptuous time of autumn. Such 
heaped-up platters of cakes of various and almost 
indescribable kinds, known only to experienced 
Dutch housewives ! There was the doughty dough- 
nut, the tenderer oily koek, and the crisp and 
crumbling cruller; sweet cakes and short cakes, 
ginger cakes and honey cakes, and the whole family 
of cakes. And then there were apple pies and 



riiE LEGEND OF SLEEFY HOLLO IV. 445 

peach pies and pumpkin pies ; besides slices of 
ham and smoked beef ; and moreover delectable 
dishes of preserved plums and peaches and pears 
and quinces ; n )t to mention broiled shad and 
roasted chickens ; together with bowls of milk and 
cream, — all mingled higgledy-piggledy, pretty much 
as I have enumerated them, with the motherly tea- 
pot sending up its clouds of vapor from' the midst. 
Heiu'du bless the mark ! I want breath and time 
to discuss this banquet as it deserves, and am too 
eager to get on with my story. Happily, Ichabod 
Crane was not in so great a hurry as his historian, 
but did ample justice to every dainty. 

He was a kind and thankful creature, whose 
henrt dilated in proportion as his skin was filled 
wvith good cheer, and whose spirits rose with eating 
as some men's do with drink. He could not help, 
too, rolling his large eyes round Iiim as he ate, and 
chuckling with the possibility that he might one 
d^v be lord of all this scene of almost unimaginable 
luxury and splendor. Then, he thought, how soon 
he'd turn his back upon the old school-house, snap 
his fingers in the face of Hans Van Ripper and 
every other niggardly patron, and kick any itinerant 
ped 1 :!;ogue out of doors that should dare to call 
him comrade ! 

Old Baltus Van Tassel moved about among his 
guests with a face dilated with content and good- 
humor, round and jolly as the harvest moon. His 
hospitable attentions were b-rief, but expressive, 
being confined to a shake of the hand, a slap on 
the shoulder, a loud laugh, and a pressing invita- 
tion to " fall to and help themselves." 

And now the sound of the music from the com- 



.446 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

mon room, or hall, summoned to the dance. The 
musician was an old gray-headed negro who had 
been the itinerant orchestra of the neighborhood 
for more than half a century. His instrument was 
as old and battered as himself. The greater part 
of the time he scrajoed on two or three strings, 
accompanying every movement of the bow with a 
motion of the head, bowing almost to the ground 
and stamping with his foot whenever a fresh couple 
were to start. 

Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as 
much as upon his vocal powers. Not a limb, not 
a fibre about him was idle ; and to have seen his 
loosely hung frame in full motion and clattering 
about the room you would have thought Saint 
Vitus himself, that blessed patron of the dance, 
was figuring before you in person. He was the 
-admiration of all the negroes, who, having gathered, 
of all ages and sizes, from the farm and the neigh- 
borhood, stood forming a pyramid of shining black 
faces at every door and window, gazing with delight 
at the scene, rolling their white eyeballs, and 
showing grinning rows of ivory from ear to ear. 
How could the fiogger of urchins be otherwise than 
■animated and joyous ? The lady of his heart was 
his partner in the dance, and smiling graciously in 
reply to .all his amorous oglings, while Brom Bones, 
;sorely smitten with love and jealousy, sat brooding 
by himself in one corner. 

When the dance was at an end Ichabod was 
attracted to a knot of the sager folks, who, wdth 
old Van Tassel, sat smoking at one end of the 
piazza gossiping over former times and drawing 
out long stories about the war. 



THE legb:nd of sleepy hollow 



447 



This neighborhood, at the time of which I am 
speaking, was one of those highly favored places 
which abound with chronicle and great men. The 
British and American line had run near it during^ 
the war ; it had therefore been the scene of ma- 
rauding and infested with refugees, cow-boys, and all 
kinds of border chivalry. Just sufficient time had 
elapsed to enable each story-teller to dress up his 
tale with a little becoming fiction, and in the in- 
distinctness of his recollection to make himself the 
hero of every exploit. 

There was the story of DolTue Martling, a large 
blue-beardec} Dutchman, who had nearly taken a 
British frigate with an old iron nine-pounder from 
a mud breastwork, only that his gun burst at the 
sixth discharge. And there w^as an old gentleman 
who shall be nameless, being too rich a mynheer 
to be lightly mentioned, who, in the battle of White- 
plains, being an excellent master of defence, par- 
ried a musket-ball with a small sword, insomuch 
that he absolutely felt it whiz round the blade and 
glance off at the hilt : in proof of which he was ready 
at any time to show the sword, with the hilt a little 
bent. There were several more that had been 
equally great in the field, not one of whom but was 
persuaded that he had a considerable hand in bring- 
ing the war to a happy termination. 

But all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts 
and apparitions that succeeded. The neighbor- 
hood is rich in legendary treasures of the kind. 
Local tales and superstitions thrive best in these 
sheltered, long-settled retreats, but are trampled 
under foot by the shifting throng that forms the 
population of most of our country places. Besides, 



448 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

there is no encouragement for ghosts in most of 
•our villages, for they have scarcely had time to finish 
their first nap and turn themselves in their graves 
before their surviving friends have travelled awa)' 
from the neighborhood ; so that when they turn out 
at night to walk their rounds they have no acquaint- 
ance left to call upon. This 'is perhaps the reason 
why we so seldom liear of ghosts except in our long- 
established Dutch communities. 

The immediate cause, however, of the prevalence 
of supernatural stories in these parts was doubtless 
owing to the vicinity of Sleepy Hollow\ There was 
a contagion in the very air that blew from that 
haunted region ; it breathed forth an atmosphere 
of dreams and fancies infecting all the land. 
Several of the Sleepy Hollow people were present 
at Van Tassel's, and, as usual, were doling out their 
Avild and wonderful legends. Many dismal tales 
were told about funeral trains and mourning cries 
and wailings heard and seen about the great tree 
where the unfortunate Major Andre was taken, and 
Avhich stood in the neighborhood. Some mention 
was made also of the woman in vvhite that haunted 
the dark jjlcn at Raven Rock, and was often heard 
to shriek on winter nights before a storm, havmg 
perished there in tlie snow\ The chief part of the 
stories, however, turned upon the favorite spectre 
of Sleepy Hollow, the headless horseman, who had 
been heard several times of late patrolling the 
country, and, it was said, tethered his horse nightly 
among the graves in the churchyard. 

The sequestered situa'aon of this church seems 
always to have made it a favorite haunt of troubled 
opirits. It stands on a knoll surrounded by locust 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 



449 



trees and lofty elms, from among which its decent 
whitewashed walls shine modestly forth, like 
Christian purity beaming through the shades of 
retirement. A gentle slope descends from it to a 
silver sheet of water bordered by high trees, between 
which peeps may be caught at the blue hills of 
the Hudson. To look upon its grass-grown yard, 
where the sunbeams seem to sleep so quietly, one 
would tliink that there at least the dead might rest 
in peace. On one side of the church extends a 
"W'ide woody dell, along which raves a large brook 
among broken rocks and trunks of fallen trees. 
Over a deep black part of the stream, not far from 
the church, was formerlv tln'own a wooden bridire ; 
the road that led to it and the bridge itself were 
thickly shaded by overhanging trees, which cast a 
gloom about it even in the daytime, but occasioned 
a fearful darkness at night. Such was one of the 
favorite haunts of the headless horseman, and the 
place where he was most frequently encountered. 
The tale was told of old Brouwer, a most heretical 
disbeliever in ghosts, how he met the horseman 
returning from his foray into Sleepy Hollow, and was 
obliged to get up behind him ; how they galloped 
over bush and brake, over hill and swamp, until 
they reached the bridge, when the horseman sud- 
denly turned into a skeleton, threw old Brouwer into 
the brook, and sprang away over the tree-tops with 
a clap of thunder. 

This story was immediately matched by a thrice- 
marvellous adventure of Brom Bones, who made 
light of the galloping Hessian as an arrant jockey. 
He affirmed that on returning one night from the 
neighboring village of Sing-Sing he had been over- 
"■9 



45° 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 



taken by this midnight trooper ; that he had offered 
to race with him for a bowl of punch, and should 
have won it too, for Daredevil beat the goblin 
horse all hollow, but just as they came to the church 
bridcre the Hessian bolted and vanished in a flash 
of fire. 

All these tales, told in that drowsy undertone 
with which men talk in the dark, the countenances 
of the listeners only now and then receiving a casual 
gleam from the glare of a pipe, sank deep in the 
mind of Ichabod. He repaid them in kind with 
large extracts from his invaluable, author, Cotton 
Mather, and added many marvellous events that 
had taken place in 'his native state of Connecticut 
and fearful sights which he had seen in his nightly 
walks about Sleepy Hollow. 

The revel now gradually broke up. The old 
farmers gathered together their families in their 
wagons, and were heard for some time rattling along 
the hollow roads and over the distant hills. Some 
of the damsels mounted on pillions behind their 
favorite swains, and their light-hearted laughter, 
mingling wdth the clatter of hoofs, echoed along the 
silent woodlands, sounding fainter and fainter un- 
til they gradually died away, and the late scene of 
noise and frolic was all silent and deserted. 
Ichabod only lingered behind, according to the 
custom of country lovers, to have a tete-a-tete with 
the heiress, fully convinced that he was now on the 
high road to success. What passed at this inter- 
view I will not pretend to say, for in fact I do not 
know. Something, however, I fear me, must have 
gone wrong, for he certainly sallied forth, after no 
very great interval, with an air quite desolate and 



THE L E GEND OF SLE EP V IIOLL OIK 451 

chop-fallen. Oh these women ! these women ! 
Could that girl have been playing off any of her 
coquettish tricks ? Was her encouragement of the 
poor pedagogue all a mere sham to secure her con- 
quest of his rival ? Heaven only knows, not 1 1 
Let it suffice to say, Ichabod stole forth with the 
air of one who had been sacking a hen-roost, rather 
than a fair lady's heart. Without looking to the 
right or left to notice the scene of rural wealth on 
which he had so often gloated, he went straight to 
the stable, and with several hearty cuffs and kicks 
roused his steed most uncourteously from the com- 
fortable quarters in which he was soundly sleeping, 
dreaming of mountains of corn and oats and whole 
valleys of timothy and clover. 

It was the very witching time of night that 
Ichabod, heavy-hearted and crestfallen, pursued 
his travel homewards along the sides of the lofty 
hills which rise above Tarry Town, and which he 
had traversed so cheerily in the afternoon. The 
hour was as dismal as himself. Far below him the 
Tappan Zee spread its dusky and indistinct waste 
of waters, with here and there the tall mast of a 
sloop riding quietly at anchor under the land. In 
the dead hush of midnight he could even hear the 
barking of the watch-dog from the opposite shore 
of the Hudson ; but it was so vague and faint as 
only to give an idea of his distance from this faithful 
companion of man. Now and then, too, the long- 
drawn crowing of a cock, accidentally awakened, 
would sound far, far oft', from some farm-house 
away among the hills ; but it was like a dreaming 
sound in his ear. No signs of life occurred near 
him, but occasionally the melancholy chirp of a 



452 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

cricket, or perhaps the o^ttural twang of a bull-frog 
from a neighboring marsh, as if sleeping uncorafon,- 
ably and turning suddenly in his bed. 

All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had 
heard in the afternoon now came crowding upoii 
his recollection. The niMit srew darker and 
darker : the stars seemed to sink deeper in the sky, 
and driving clouds occasionally hid them from his 
sight. He had never felt so lonely and dismal. 
He was. moreover, approaching the ven.- place 
where manv of the scenes of the s^host-stories had 
been laid. In the centre of the road stood an 
enormous tulip tree which towered like a giant 
above all the other trees of the neighborhood and 
formed a kind of landmark, lis limbs were 
gnarled and fantastic, large enough to form trunks 
for ordinarv trees, twisting down almost to the 
earth and rising as^ain into the air. It was con- 
nected with the tragical stor}' of the unfortunate 
Andre, v.ho had been taken prisoner hard by, 
and wis universally known by the name of Major 
Andre's tree. The common people regarded it 
with a mixture of respect and superstition, partly 
out of sympathy for the fate of its ill-starreJ name- 
sake, and partly from the tales of strange sights 
and doleful lamentations told conceminor it. 

As Ichabod approached this fearful tree he 
be^an to whistle : he thought his whistle was 
answered : ir was but a blast sweeping sharply 
through the dry branches. As he approached a 
little nearer he thought he saw something white 
hanging in the midst of *he tree : he paused and 
ceased whistling, but on looking more narrowly per- 
ceived that it was a place where the tree had beer 



THE i^IlGEXD of sleepy hollow. 453 

scathed by lightning and the white wood laid bare. 
Suddenly he heard a groan : his teeth chattered 
and his knees smote against the saddle ; it was but 
the rubbing of one huge bough upon another as 
thev were swayed about by the breeze. He passed 
the tree in safety, but new perils lay before him. 

About two hundred yards from the tree a small 
brook crossed the road and ran into a marshy and 
thickly-woodv^'d glen known by the name of Wiley's 
Swamp. A few rough logs, laid side by side, 
ser\^ed for a bridge over this stream. On that side 
of the road where the brook entered the wood a 
group of oaks and chestnuts, matted thick with 
wild grape-vines, threw a cavernous gloom over it. 
To pass this bridge was the severest trial. It was 
at this identical spot that the unfortunate Andre 
was captured, and under the covert of those chest- 
nuts and vines were the sturdy yeomen concealed 
who surprised him. This has ever since been con- 
sidered a haunted stream, and fearful are the feel- 
ings of the schoolboy who has to pass it alone aftet 
dark. 

As he approached the streanfhis heart began to 
thump ; he summoned up, however, all his resolu- 
tion, gave his horse half a score of kicks in the 
ribs, and attempted to dash briskly across the 
bridge : but instead of starting forward, the per- 
verse old animal made a lateral movement and ran 
broadside against the fence. Ichabod, whose fears 
increased with the delay, jerked the reins on the 
other side and kicked lustily with the contrary 
foot : it was all in vain ; his steed started, it is 
true, but it was only to plunge to the opposite side 
of the road into a thicket of brambles and alder- 



454 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 



bushes. The schoohnaster now bestowed both 
whip and heel upon the starveling ribs of old Gun- 
powder, who dashed forward, snuffing and snort- 
ing, but came to a stand just by the bridge with a 
suddenness that had nearly sent his rider sprawling 
over his head. Just at this moment aplashy tramp 
by the side of the bridge caught the sensitive ear 
of Ichabod. In the dark shadow of the grove on 
the margin of the brook he beheld something huge, 
misshapen, black, and towering. It stirred not, 
but seemed gathered up in the gloom, like some 
gigantic monster ready to spring upon the traveller. 
The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon 
his head with terror. What was to be done ? To 
turn and fly was now too late ; and besides, what 
chance was there of escaping ghost or goblin, if 
such it was, which could ride upon the wings of 
the wind ? Summoning up, therefore, a show of 
courage, he demanded in stammering accents, 
"Who are you?" He received no reply. He 
repeated his demand in a still more agitated voice. 
Still there was no answer. Once more he cud- 
gelled the sides of the inflexible Gunpowder, and, 
shutting his eyes, broke forth with involuntary 
fervor into a psalm tune. Just then the shadowy 
object of alarm put itself in motion, and with a 
scramble and a bound stood at once in the middle 
of the road. Though the night was dark and dis- 
mal, yet the form of the unknown might now in 
some degree be ascertained. He appeared to be a 
horseman of large dimensions and mounted on a 
black horse of powerful frame. He made no offer 
of molestation or sociability, but kept aloof on one 
side of the road, jogging along on the blind side of 



THE L E GEND OF SLEEP Y HOLE O W. 455 

old Gunpowder, who had now got over his fright 
and waywardness. 

Ichabod, who had no rehsh for this strange mid- 
night companion, and bethought himself of the 
^idventure of Brom Bones with the Galloping 
Hessian, now quickened his steed in hopes of leav- 
ing him behnid. The stranger, however, quickened 
his horse to an equal pace. Ichabod pulled up, 
and fell into a walk, thinking to lag behind; the 
other did the same. His heart began to sink 
within him ; he endeavored to resume his psalm 
tune, but his parched tongue clove to the roof of 
his mouth and he could not utter a stave. There 
was something in the moody and dogged silence of 
this pertinacious companion that was mysterious 
and appalling. It was soon fearfully accounted for. 
On mounting a rising ground, which brought the 
figure of his fellow-traveller in relief against the sky, 
gigantic in height and muffled in a cloak, Ichabod 
was horror-struck on perceiving that he ^vas head- 
less ! but his horror was still more increased on 
observing that the head, which should have rested 
on his shoulders, was carried before him on the 
pommel of the saddle. His terror rose to despera- 
tion, he rained a shower of kicks and blows upon 
Gunpowder, hoping by a sudden movement. to give 
his companion the slip ; but the spectre started full 
jump with him. Away, then, they dashed through 
thick and thin, stones flying and sparks flashing at 
every bound. Ichabod's flimsy garments fluttered 
in the air as he stretched his long lank body away 
over his horse's head in the eagerness of his flight. 

They had now reached the road which turns off 
*\o SleejDy Hollow ; but Gunpowder, who seemed 



456 THE SKETCH-BOOK, 

possessed with a demon, instead of keeping up it, 
made an opposite turn and plunged headlong down 
hill to the left. This road leads through a sandy 
hollow shaded by trees for about a quarter of a 
mile, where it crosses the bridge famous in goblin 
story, and just beyond swells the green knoll on 
which stands the whitewashed church. 

As yet the panic of the steed had given his un- 
skilful rider an apparent advantage in the chase ; 
but just as he had got halfway through the hollow 
the girths of the saddle gave away and he felt it slip- 
ping from under him. He seized it by the pommel 
and endeavored to hold it firm, but in vain, and 
had just time to sav^e himself by clasping old Gun- 
powder round the neck, when the saddle fell to the 
earth, and he heard it trampled under foot by his 
pursuer. For a moment the terror of Hans Van 
Ripper's wrath passed across his mind, for it was 
his Sunday saddle ; but this was no time for petty 
fears ; the goblin was hard on his haunches, and 
(unskillea rider that he was) he had much ado to 
maintain his seat, somethnes slipping on one side, 
sometimes on another, and sometimes jolted on the 
hiirh ridjie of his horse's back-bone with a violence 
that he verily feared would cleave him asunder. 

An opening in the trees now cheered him with 
the hopes that the church bridge was at hand. The 
wavering reflection of a silver star in the bosom of 
the brook told him that he was not mistaken. He 
saw the walls of the church dimly glaring under the 
trees beyond. He recollected the place where 
Brom Bones' ghostly competitor had disappeared. 
" If I can but reach that bridge," thought Ichabod, 
*' I am safe." lust then he heard the black steed 



THE LEGEXD OF ^LFEPV HOLLOW. 457 

panting and blowing close behind him ; he even 
fancied that he felt his hot breath. Another con- 
vulsive kick in the ribs, and old Gunpowder sprang 
upon the bridge ; he thundered over the resound- 
ing planks ; he gained the opposite side ; and now 
Ichabod cast a look behind to see if his pursuer 
should vanish, according to rule, in a flash of fire 
and brimstone. Just then he saw the goblin rising 
in his stirrups, and in the very act of hurling his 
head at him. Ichabod endeavored to dodge the 
horrible missile, but too late. It encountered his 
cranium with a tremendous crash , he was tumbled 
headlong into the dust, and Gunpowder, the black 
steed, and the goblin rider passed by like a whirl- 
wind. 

The next morning the old horse was found, with- 
out his saddle and with the bridle under his feet, 
soberly cropping the grass at his master's gate. 
Ichabod did not make his appearance at breakfast ; 
dinner-hour came, but no Ichabod. The boyh 
assembled at the school-house and strolled idl) 
about the banks of the brook ; but no schoolmaster, 
Hans Van Ripper now began to feel some uneasi- 
ness about the fate of poor Ichabod and his saddle. 
An inquiry was set on foot, and after diligent in- 
vestigation they came upon his traces. In one 
part of the road leading to the church was found 
the saddle trampled in the dirt ; the tracks of 
horses' hoofs, deeply dented in the road and evi- 
dently at furious speed, were traced to the bridge, 
beyond which, on the bank of a broad part of the 
brook, w^here the water ran deep and black, was 
found the hat of the unfortunate Ichabod, and close 
beside it a shattered pumpkin. 



458 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

The brook was searched, but the body of the 
schoohnaster was not to be discovered. Hans Van 
Ripper, as executor of his estate, examined the 
bundle which contained all his worldly effects. 
They consisted of two shirts and a half, two stocks 
for the neck, a pair or two of worsted stockings, an 
old pair of corduroy small-clothes, a rusty razor, a 
book of psalm tunes full of dog's ears, and a broken 
pitch-pipe. As to the books and furniture of the 
school-house, they belonged to the community, ex- 
cepting Cotton Mather's History of Witchcraft, a 
New England Almanac, and a book of dreams and 
fortune-telling ; in which last was a sheet of fools- 
cap much scribbled and blotted in several fruitless 
attempts to make a copy of verses in honor of the 
heiress of Van Tassel. These magic books and 
the poetic scrawl were forthwith consigned to the 
flames by Hans Van Ripper, who from that time 
forward determined to send his children no more to 
school, observing that he never knew any good 
come of this same reading and WTiting. Whatever 
money the schoolmaster possessed — and he had re- 
ceived his quarter's pay but a day or two before — 
he must have had about his person at the time of 
his disappearance. 

The mysterious event caused much speculation 
at the church on the following Sunda}-. Knots of 
gazers and gossips w^ere collected in the church- 
yard, at the bridge, and at the spot where the hat 
and pumpkin had been found. The stories of 
Brouwer, of Bones, and a whole budget of others 
were called to mind, and when they had diligently 
considered them all, and compared them with the 
symptoms of the present case, they shook their 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY liOLLOW. 



459 



heads and came to the conclusion that Ichabod had 
been carried off by the galloping Hessian. As he 
was a bachelor and in nobody's debt, nobody trou- 
bled his head any more about him, the school was 
removed to a different quarter of the hollow and 
another pedagogue reigned in his stead. 

It is true an old farmer, who had been down to 
New York on a visit several years after, and from 
whom this account of the ghostly adventure was 
received, brought home the intelligence that Icha- 
bod Crane was still alive ; that he had left the 
neighborhood, partly through fear of the goblin and 
Hans Van Ripper, and partly in mortification at 
having been suddenly dismissed by the heiress ; 
that he had changed his quarters to a distant part 
of the country ; had kept school and studied law at 
the same time, had been admitted to the bar, turned 
politician, electioneered, written for the newspapers, 
and finally had been made a justice of the Ten 
Pound Court. Brom Bones too, who shortly after 
his rival's disappearance conducted the blooming 
Katrina in triumph to the altar, was observed to 
look exceedingly knowing whenever the story of 
Ichabod was related, and always burst into a hearty 
laugh at the mention of the pumpkin ; which led 
some to suspect that he knew more about the 
matter than he chose to tell. 

The old country wives, however, who are the best 
judges of these matters, maintain to this day that 
Ichabod was spirited away by supernatural means ; 
and it is a favorite story often told about the neigh- 
borhood round the winter evening fire. The bridge 
became more than ever an object of superstitious 
awe, and that may be the reason why the road has 



4Co THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

been altered of late years, so as to approach the 
church by the border of the mill-pond. The school- 
house, being deserted, soon fell to decay, and was 
reported to be haunted by the ghost of the unfor- 
tunate pedagogue ; and the plough-boy, loitering 
homeward of a still summer evening, has often fan- 
cied his voice at a distance chanting a melancholy 
psalm tune among the tranquil solitudes of Sleepy 
Hollow. 



POSTSCRIPT, 

FOUND IN THE HANDWRITING OF MR. KNICKER- 
BOCKER. 

The preceding tale is given almost in the precise 
words in which 1 heard it related at a Corporation 
meeting of the ancient city of Manhattoes, at which 
were present many of its sagest and most illustrious 
burghers. The narrator was a pleasant, shabby, 
gentlemanly old fellow in pepper-and-salt clothes, 
with a sadly humorous face, and one whom I 
strongly suspected of being poor, he made such 
efforts to be entertaining. When his story was 
concluded there was much laughter and approba- 
tion, particularly from two or three deputy alder- 
men who had been asleep the greater part of the 
time. There was, however, one tall, dry-looking 
old gentleman, with beetling eyebrows, who main- 
tained a grave and rather severe face throughout, 
now and then folding his arms, inclining his head, 
and looking down upon the floor, as if turning a 
doubt over in his mind. He was one of your wary 



POSTSCRIPT. 46 1 

men, who never laugh but upon good grounds — ' 
when they have reason and the law on their side. 
When the mirth of the rest of the company had 
subsided and silence was restored, he leaned one 
arm on the elbow of his chair, and sticking the 
other akimbo, demanded, with a slight but exceed- 
ingly sage motion of the head and contraction of 
the brow, what was the moral of the story and what 
it went to prove. 

The story-teller, who was just putting a glass of 
wine to his lips as a refreshment after his toils,, 
paused for a moment, looked at his inquirer with 
an air of infinite deference, and, lowering the glass 
slowly to the table, observed that the story was in- 
tended most logically to prove — 

"That there is no situation in life but has its 
advantages and pleasures — provided we will but 
take a joke as we hnd it ; 

"That, therefore, he that runs races with goblin 
troopers is likely to have rough riding of it. 

" Ergo, for a country schoolmaster to be refused 
the hand of a Dutch heiress is a certain step tO' 
high preferment in the state." 

The cautious old gentleman knit his brows ten- 
fold closer after this explanation, being sorely 
puzzled by the ratiocination of the syllogism, while 
methought the one in pepper-and-salt eyed him with 
something of a triumphant leer. At length he ob- 
served that all this was very well, but still he 
thought the story a little on the extravagant — there 
were one or two points on which he had his doubts. 

"Faith, sir," "replied the story-teller^ "as to that 
matter, I don't believe one-half of it myself." 

D. K. 



462 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 



L'ENVOY.=* 

Go, little booke, God send thee good passage, 
And specially let this be thy prayere, 
Unto them all that thee will read or hear, 
Where thou art wrong, after their help to call, 
Thee to correct in any part or all. 

Chaucer's Belle Dame sans Alercie. 

In concluding a second volume of the Sketch 
Book the Author cannot but express his deep sense 
of the indulgence with which his first has been re- 
ceived, and of the liberal disposition that has been 
evinced to treat him with kindness as a stranger. 
Even the critics, whatever may be said of them by 
others, he has found to be a singularly gentle and 
good-natured race ; it is true that each has in turn 
objected to some one or two articles, and that these 
individual exceptions, taken in the aggregate, would 
amount almost to a total condemnation of his work ; 
but then he has ,been consoled by observing that 
what one has particularly censured another has as 
particularly praised ; and thus, the encomiums being 
set off against the objections, he finds his work, 
upon the whole, commended far beyond its deserts. 

He is aware that he runs a risk of forfeiting much 
of this kind favor by not following the counsel that 
has been liberally bestowed upon him ; for where 
•abundance of valuable advice is given gratis it may 
seem a man's own fault if he should go astray. He 

* Closing the second volume of the London edition. 



V ENVOY. 463- 

only can say in his vindication that he faithfully 
determined for a time to govern himself in his 
second volume by the opinions passed upon his 
first ; but he was soon brought to a stand by the 
contrariety of excellent counsel. One kindly ad- 
vised him to avoid the ludicrous; another to shun 
the pathetic ; a third assured him that he was 
tolerable at description, but cautioned him to leave 
narrative alone ; while a fourth declared that he 
had a very pretty knack at turning a story, and was 
really entertaining when in a pensive mood,, but 
was grievously mistaken if he imagined himself to 
possess a spirit of humor. 

Thus perplexed by the advice of his friends, who 
each in turn closed some particular path, but left 
him all the world beside to range in, he found that 
to follow all their counsels would, in fact, be to 
stand still. He remained for a time sadly embar- 
rassed, when all at once the thought struck him to 
ramble on as he had begun ; that his work being 
miscellaneous and written for different humors, it 
could not be expected that any one would be pleased 
with the whole ; but that if it should contain some- 
thing to suit each reader, his end would be com- 
pletely answered. Few guests sit down to a varied 
table with an equal appetite for every dish. One 
has an elegant horror of a roasted pig ; another 
holds a curry or a devil in utter abomination ; a 
third cannot tolerate the ancient flavor of venison 
and wild-fowl ; and a fourth, of truly masculine 
stomach, looks with sovereign contempt on those 
knick-knacks here and there dished up for the 
ladies. Thus each article is condemned in its turn, 
and yet amidst this variety of appetites seldom 



464 THE SKETCff-BOOK. 

does a dish go away from the table without being 
tasted and reUshed by some one or other of the 
guests= 

With these considerations he ventures to serve 
up this second volume in the same heterogeneous 
way with his first; simply requesting the reader, if 
he should tmd here and there something to please 
him, to rest assured that it was written expressly 
for intelligent readers like himself ; but entreating 
him, should he find anything to dislike, to tolerate 
it, as one of those articles which the author has 
been obliged to write for readers of a less refined 
taste. 

To be se'iious: The author is conscious of the 
numerous faults and iniperfections of his work, and 
well aware how little he is disciplined and accom- 
plished in the arts of authorship. His deficiencies 
are also increased bv a diffidence arisins; from his 
peculiar situation. He finds himself writing in a 
■strange land, and appearing before a public which 
he has been accustomed from childhood to regard 
with the highest feelings of awe and reverence. 
He is full of solicitude to deserve their approbation, 
yet finds that very solicitude continually embarrass- 
ing his powers and depriving him of that ease and 
confidence which are necessary to successful exer- 
tion. Still, the kindness with which he is treated 
encourages him to go on. hoping that in time he 
may acquire a steadier footing; and thus he pro- 
ceeds, half venturing, half shrinking, surprised at 
liic oM^n D-Qod- fortune and wondering at his own 
temer; ^ 

THE END. 
















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